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REUIDOIRIIMITED 




Jl Romance of tJje §frml 



BY 

CHARLES GOULD BCCDC 



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Newport Publishing Co. 
1908 



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| LIBRARY of CONGRESS! 
Two Couies Received 

DEC 11 1908 

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Copyright 1908 by Lillian B. Beede 



CONTENTS 

PRELUDE 

PART I 
THE HOME OF DREAMS 

PART II 
THE DREAMER 

PART III 

THE DREAMS 

Heaven 

Eden 

Morning in Eden 

Adam and Eve 

Out of the Deeps 

In Days of Doom 

The Shadow of the Pyramids 

By the Way of the Lord 

In the Father's House 

Rome 

The Court of Tiberius 

Jerusalem 

The Mount of Olives 

Night of the Crucification 



Jprriute 



As on an organ with a groping touch 

The player picks from out the sleeping chords 

One single note, and then another forms 

Beneath the hand, that wandering here and there 

Feels out the minor of the loftier strain, 

That disconnected, fugitive and vague, 

Yet holds within its lesser harmonies 

The keynotes of the whole, 

And through this inspiration to his thought, 

Fair, fleeting fancies take their perfect shapes, 

For now the prelude holds the basic parts 

From which are improvised completed wholes; 

So with the tale which follows; in its course 

To touch alone the tones that underlie, 

The warp that runs among the pictured woof, 

And holds it close together. 

For so one learns to handle all the stops, 

Test the capacity of all the chords, 

Finger among the softer keys, and, then, 

When hand and organ have grown each to each, 

Presses the swell and from its bursting pipes 

A mighty melody that moves the soul, 

Until it shakes its dusty trammels off 

And soars aloft unbound. 



There is an organ mightier than all, 
Whose keys are pressed, and answer to the touch 
Of God alone, whose vast creative mind 
Hath here the floating symphonies of space 
Caught and condensed, until this solid mass 
Rolls through the limitless expanse around, 
And adds another strain to that great song 
The universe through countless ages sings, 
The music of the spheres. 

The smiles that chase each other on the lips 

Of sleeping infants in their mother's arms; 

The laugh that rings from happy childish hearts; 

The groan that wells up from the soul of care; 

The sigh of weariness; the moan of pain; 

The thunder-crash that shakes the trembling earth; 

The whispering wind that dallies with the leaves; 

Are but the answer to the hand of God 

On nature's organ keys. 

If man is made the image of his God, 
Why only here and there one human soul 
Can burst the bonds and fetters of the flesh, 
And catch the music throbbing through the heart 
Of all pervading nature, God doth know. 
Why only here and there one master mind 
Can mould in clay and chisel from the rock, 
Place in the poet's verse the soul of song, 
Strike out from silent strings divinest strains 
That echo down the years, no tongue can tell. 

The past doth damn the present with a truth; 
Say what you will, equality is not, 
Ne'er was and never will be, here or there, 
On earth, or 'round the very throne of God. 



Nearest to God is he whose lofty mind 

O'er tops his brother man. 

All nature beareth witness unto us 

Of constant struggle 'gainst opposing ills; 

And mind and body only can attain 

Approximation to perfection here 

Through endless effort and by constant use; 

Sloth meaneth retrogression. 

Manhood must yoke itself both hard and fast 

Unto ambition, though his fellow lead 

Up rocky steeps, where naught of hope remains. 

Behind the veil success doth hold the bays; 

Living or dead, thy strife is but a bud 

That shall unfold a violet or a rose. 



SHf? Ijome of Stroma 

Where cliff and torrent cut the jagged rocks 
Into fantastic shapes that grandly rise 
In splintered masses, towering toward the skies, 
Upon a lonely, cloud-encircled peak, 
Among the mountains of the Caucasus, 
A castle stands, forgotten by the world. 
Time worn, majestic, grand, this castle is, 
A monumental relic left to last 
Until the stroke of doom shall sound; built by 
A race of giants, mighty men of old, 
Whose daughters, gods, perchance, came down to woo, 
And this was builded for their trysting place. 

Tradition bears no witness from the past, 

History no record of whose labored toil 

Has hewn from out their adamantine beds 

Its massive stones, that rise in granite tiers, 

Layer on layer, towering from below 

To where aloft each topmost turret lifts 

In dusky silhouette, pale cameos 

Shot through with golden sunsets, when the sky 

Kneels wrapped in glory at the feet of night, 

A Sakhrat jewel cut in bas-relief 

Is this old castle on the mountain top. 

Tower and bastion, donjon-keep and wall 

-9- 



Are yet as solid as in that old day 

That saw their capstones laid upon their brows, 

And their forgotten builders pass away. 

Forgotten? yes; 'tis only ghosts I see 

Of those old builders; e'en their names unknown. 

What use if they were known? the ages bring 

Oblivion to all greatness, to all things, 

The work alone, and that but rarely, lives. 

And only lives when genius crowns the whole. 

This is the only good that life can give, 
To leave behind us something that shall last 
To teach the afterward; to strike from out 
The silent chords some harmony whose tone 
Shall vibrate on the harp of future years, 
Re-echo down the corridors of time 
And sound a keynote in eternity. 

Built up against the Castle's western wall 
There is a chapel, seeming like a bride, 
A fair young bride upon a patriarch's breast. 
More church than chapel, for its golden cross 
Pierces the blue, and in the upper sky 
Shines like some angel-blazon writ in Heaven. 
Here hath been builded unto God alone 
A noble temple and a sacred shrine 
Bedecked with skilled devices, and an art 
Rare as the sculptured epics of the past, 
Yet insignificant and small and mean 
Beside the castle's heavy vastuess set. 

It is by contrast that we know all things. 
The present here lies close against the past; 
And here the new doth emphasize the old; 

—10- 



And here what balks the leveling of time 

Doth preach of immortality to man, 

With silent lips, perchance, yet uttered speech 

Can never raise the heart of hope so high 

As can these monumental dumb-mouthed stones, 

That give the lie to time. 

But still this place, 
This modern chapel, is a thing sc great 
That, in some peopled Babylon of ours, 
Had wealth and worship builded such a one, 
It had been deemed the model of an age. 
Then the proud grandeur of its picture frame 
Had never dwarfed and vilified the work; 
Without, one sees the contrast, not within, 
For there dim aisles are lost among the gloom, 
And pillared arches tower above one's head; 
And statues glow, and pictured martyrs gleam, 
As though they held imprisoned glory in, 
And that God-essence permeated light. 
Then where is grandeur if it be not here? 
Aye, it is here, if not to sense — to soul. 

Here are the quiet corridors and halls, 
The cloistered, sacred silences of time, 
Where spirit ministers to human needs, 
And all our hard hearts feel the touch of hands, 
And melt to love and worship; and there comes 
That pure, sweet calm, that ever seems to say 
Unto life's restless billows, "peace, be still." 
Without the presence of the living soul 
The noblest forms are mummified and lost. 
Nature and art must tell their mission — thrift. 
Heaven never made a mountain or a flower 

-11- 



To say not to the sentient, "I am here." 
So hath this Chapel and this Castle, both, 
To tell of life, past, present, and to come — 
To reset truths and pin them on life's breast. 



—12- 



II. 



Unto the Chapel from the Castle door, 

Along the narrow, rocky pathway, comes 

A man of noble port, and lofty mien, 

Of stately step and stature; such a man 

As earth gave birth to in her glowing youth, 

As Abram might have been, or he of Gath; 

Strong, manly, forceful, mighty men of old — 

Our great ancestors, ere the shears of time 

Had clipped their strength, and from their massive fronts 

The world's Delilahs had plucked one by one 

Their flowing locks, until their might had passed 

And left the puny thing, that now, to-day, 

Goes trembling through two score or more of years, 

The youth of ancient manhood, and expires. 

This is a man of intellect and power, 

A king without a crown, but still a king. 

And, as he passes onward to the door, 

And turning looks up at the darkening sky, 

His grave, sad face, and longing, earnest eyes 

Bear the deep imprint of a soul's unrest, 

Whose soaring wings are chafing 'gainst the bonds 

That bar their loftier flights and higher aims; 

Another chained Prometheus. 



-13- 



This is, still, 
A modern man of eighteenth century make. 
You would not think it though to look at him. 
The Greek and Roman races, in their prime, 
Brought forth the types that, after ages passed, 
Statue and song commemorate and praise; 
Yet here are beauty, manliness and power, 
That wear no special likeness, which shall serve 
To tell the story of that native land 
Whose motherhood had given gentle birth 
To this, her one enigma, made in flesh; 
As nature, tired of copy set by rule, 
Had taken from the best of every race, 
And to first principles returned again, 
And made this man the image of his God, 

This is a man, a noble man, twice told, 
By birth and breeding and the pride of mind, 
With mighty aspirations, mightier thoughts, 
That fret the curb of time, the bonds of flesh, 
And e'en would grasp infinitudes with hands, 
And anchor wisdom underneath his feet. 

His spirit longs for power, not kingly power 
That vaunts a gewgaw crown, a two-edged sword, 
That cuts a crimson path through human gore 
To blaze upon some throning seat of fame, 
But power pre-eminent, that plucks great truths 
Out of abysmal deeps, and lifts then up, 
And scatters them abroad, that souls might say 
Unto his soul, 

"Aye, thou art truly great." 



-14- 



This is the last proud scion of a race 

Whose name has been a watchword in the land, 

That race has brought forth men of kingly state, 

And men of lesser note, but leaders all, 

Before whose conquering arms the massive gates 

Of many a mighty fortress opened wide 

To lay its wealth and fortunes at their feet. 

But death has reaped the harvest of their lives, 

And left one only shoot of that great tree 

Whose spreading branches had in former days 

O'er-shadowed, blest, and blasted half a world. 

As if in very mockery of fate, 

All that his people cared for is to him 

As Momus is to Mentor, but a farce. 

Rank, wealth unbounded, is his heritage, 

Honor and power if he but lift a hand, 

And yet this lonely eyrie, cloud enwrapped, 

Is now his home, and few retainers here 

Attend his steps. The earth, the sea, the sky, 

The dreamer's dream, the sculptor's dream in stone, 

The painter's dream on canvas framed in dreams; 

And sometimes when the soul's mirage uplifts, 

A swift-winged vision, clothed in spotless white, 

Of angel faces round one dear, dear face — 

Are all he hath; and is he satisfied? 

Has then the teeming and voluptuous earth 
No charms to bring him to its throbbing heart? 
Has woman's beauty, too, no lures for him? 
Are life and passion dead within his breast? 
Man hath not manhood if untouched of love. 

-15— 



The gray-haired monk may vaunt, with lowly gaze, 
Of singleness of thought — to one great end; 
The quiet nun, with hood and shrouded form, 
May boast of chastity in heart and soul; 
And cold, grim celibates, with stuttering lips 
Hurl fierce defiance at the feet of Love, 
With imprecations deep; yet all of these, 
Aye! every single one whose pulsing heart 
Is fed by ruddy fountains, full and strong, 
Longs for some tender breast on which to lay 
His tired head; longs for some tender voice 
To soothe his sorrows and embalm his joys; 
Aye! even these see visions in the night, 
Dream day dreams and awake, and wake to weep; 
But dream and vision save them from despair. 

Love is the essence of Divinity, 

The world's white blossom, still unsoiled and pure, 

The crown of human happiness and peace; 

The golden thread, that strong as iron bands 

Outstretches from the cradle, through the grave, 

To end within the human heart of God, 

From which it emanates. 

Why then upon this dreary mountain top, 
Far from the busy haunts of all his kind, 
With naught but sea and sky and gloomy crag" 
To bound his waking vision, stays he here? 
Why stays he here alone? This tale will tell. 

This man, last offspring of a mighty stock, 
The last descendant of an hundred earls, 
This lonely hermit of the Caucasus, 
Is Caius Olifaunt, Knight of St. John, 

-16- 



And Baron of an empire. In his right 

Are hills and rivers, castles, towers, and towns, 

Power without stint, and subject to his will 

A kingly revenue. His restless feet 

Have traversed earth's expanses far and near; 

Forward and backward, ceaselessly and long 

His heart went in its quest; with all his strength 

He sought through cold and heat, through calm and storm, 

From Arctic solitudes of snow and ice, 

To where the dreaming islands of the South 

Brood on the sleeping ocean's pulseless breast; 

Through peopled cities and unpeopled towns; 

Among the piled up ruins of the past; 

O'er Egypt's storied plains and desert sands, 

To foul Siberia's mighty prison house, 

Where freedom's soul in Russia clanks its chains; 

Seeking one face, one living woman's face, 

Forever disappointed in the search. 

And he had wandered thus these many years, 
Seeking a sentient form to clothe a dream; 
Seeking to rehabilitate again, 
Some long forgotten image, that his soul 
Conceived, but oh, he knew it not, not then, 
That what he thought a dream was memory 
Raising the dead and resurrecting love. 

At last, worn out and weary with the world, 
That seemed to hold not that he needed most, 
He seeks a home, where nature all unstained 
Holds forth her hands as full in that hour 
They overflowed in Eden's garden-close. 

As Caius pauses at the Chapel door, 
With folded arms and somber, earnest eyes, 
His musing thoughts unwrap themselves in words: 

—17— 



"'Tis not among the dizzy whirl of sense, 

Where all the lusts of living have full sway, 

Where man doth strive against his brother man, 

And meed of blood is honor and renown, 

That souls grow stronger or can keep their strength; 

Or where the crowded centers of the world 

Are only caldrons filled with witches' broth, 

That boils and seethes with passion and with pain, 

But where primeval nature, still in tune, 

Sings matin songs and vesper hymns of praise; 

Where thou canst be alone among the hills, 

Among the forests, where the hermit-trees 

Stand like cathedral pillars roofed with leaves, 

And whisper 'God', with every zephyr's breath. 

There all the hidden secrets of the earth 

Cast off their shrouding robes and stand unveiled 

Before the eyes of the awakened soul; 

For there the body bursts its chains of fear, 

From all its false and base surroundings free, 

Doth shed some portion of its grosser form, 

And now, no more the master, doth become, 

What Heaven willed it, servant to the soul." 

He ceases; turning, enters at the door, 
And passing onward down the central aisle, 
Pauses beneath the dome that far above 
Looks dim and misty in the gathering gloom. 

The sun is lying like a blood-red shield 
Upon the far horizon's utmost rim, 
And blazing outv/ard, in long, level lines, 
Lights up the Chapel's gothic windowpanes, 
Emblazoned with the pictures of old saints. 

—18— 



It wraps a golden glory round their heads, 

And flashes from their robes like liquid flame, 

And piercing inward paints the twilight shades 

With brilliant beams of varigated light. 

It reaches back beyond the chancel rail, 

And rests upon a sacrificial cross — 

Love's bleeding body and its crown of thorns, 

A carved expression of unconscious sight, 

An ideal image of the crucified — 

On granite columns rising to the roof 

And looming stark, like tall, white ghosts, 

Clothed in pale gleams and hooded with the night. 

And now the sunbeam's separate rays combine 

To form one nucleus of living light, 

As though it loved the thing it shone upon — 

A marble statue, with a woman's face 

Of more than mortal beauty, pure and sweet, 

Crowning a form not human but divine; 

A sleeping angel prisoned in a stone, 

A poet's dream embodied from the rock. 

Upon its granite base the artist's hand 

Has graved one name, the world's first mother's — Eve- 

As though he scorned the idea that his work 

Should bear a lesser name than had been given 

To time's first human blessing loosed from Heaven. 

Facing the statue, Caius standeth mute, 
Before the living image he hath wrought. 
Two noble types of human beauty here, 
The one confronts the other in the light, 
One standing speechless as though made of stone, 
One made of stone, yet speaking in all tongues. 
Here is the artist, there the artist's soul, 
Creator and created. 

-19- 



The soul doth recognize the soul in art; 
The deathless portion in the work and us 
Clasp hands across the unseen barriers raised 
Between the spiritual and natural world. 
Painting and poetry, sculpture, these are great 
When to the work the artist brings his soul 
And leaves a portion there. 

Beneath the middle arch that bears aloft 
The Chapel's central dome, there fitly stands 
This dream of art to marble petrified. 
A fitting gift to grace so fair a shrine; 
A fitting shrine to hold so fair a gift. 

A wonder rarely shows itself in crowds; 
And ghosts and visions come to those alone 
Who walk life's solitude-embowered isles 
With soul and silence hand in hand with peace. 
And Caius, standing there yet mute and still, 
Feels creeping over him a vague unrest, 
As though some haunting presence in the air 
Filled all the place, and called him by his name. 

"Caius!" The silence hardly stirs, so soft 

And sweet the voice, like melody a-dream. 

"Caius!" He turns as from before the rail 

That closes in the chancel, a dim form, 

Which seems to grow from out the lights and shades, 

(As though it had embodied all the lights 

And thrown the shadows backward like a cloak) 

Comes forth and stands before him. 

"O, my friend! 
Why, Theodosius, is it thou in truth? 
I thought thee far away in distant lands. 

-20- 



The gods be thanked I see thy face once more. 
Dost thou not need refreshment? Come with me, 
And I will find thee somewhat that shall serve." 

A gleam of pleasure like a smile appears 
Upon the calm, sad face that fronts his own, 
And all its sternness seems to melt away. 

"Caius!" The voice is distant as before, 
Like some far, wandering echo left behind, 
Dropped from the soaring pinions of a song. 
"Caius, where is thy knowledge of the truth? 
Thy love hath cast a mist before thine eyes. 
My body is not here, as thou dost know; 
On Ararat it lies; it needs no food, 
That part which stands before thee in this place. 
I came to see thee; and 'tis food enough - 
That in the spirit I yet view thee here, 
The same dear boy that in the years agone 
Came to my knee, in greedy search for truth, 
Till all my many years could nothing add. 
Thou couldst have taught me, not I thee, at last. 

But now I bring thee more than sight of me, 

I bring thee warning that the end is near. 

Thou art as learned in all mystic law 

As any man that ever lived on earth. 

Thy knowledge of the truth will find the key 

That shall unlock, as Joseph did of old 

The dream of Pharaoh, this, another dream. 

My stay must needs be short. The brittle thread 

That holds the spirit bound, if stretched beyond 

The limit of its power, will surely break. 

I would not dare the rupture, it is God 

Who ties or knots or cuts as He doth choose. 

-21- 



Listen, my son, the other night I slept, 

While sitting at my door. 'Twas just at eve, 

When darkness treads with slow approaching feet 

Upon the trailing mantle of the day. 

The gold and purple of the sunset sky 

Was fading into tints of ashen gray 

When I awoke, and in the east one star 

Hung like a jewel on the breast of night. 

It was thy natal star, whose infant light 

Sprang into being when thy soul new born 

Looked out at first upon the changing world. 

Now mark the sequel; not as heretofore 

When thy strong spirit cast its bonds of flesh; 

When it hath faded out as if it slept, 

As though an eyelid shut the glory in 

Upon a living eye; 

I saw thy star forsake its natural place, 

And rise and rise until above my head 

It reached the zenith, where it stopped at last. 

And then from out white, lustrous distances 

Another star swept downward through the deeps, 

And melted into thine, whose steady light 

Broke in ten thousand myriad wheels of fire, 

That flashed and curled in aureoles of flame, 

Then vanished like a meteor from the sky. 

And in its place two stars appeared entwined; 

So intermingled were they, each in each, 

That only sight like mine had read aright 

The warning hidden in that shadowy vault, 

Or seen the dual beauty shining there, 

Two angel forms that from their garments sheen 

Flung out the light of stars. 

Then from the deeper deeps a glory shone 
That so enveloped those twin lights below, 

—22— 



My tired vision, straining at its best, 

Could just behold a radiant, God-like form 

That seemed to hold them clasped unto its breast. 

At last this also faded, and a light 

Came streaming downward like a golden cross 

Upon a field of azure sown with gems. 

Caius, thy search is ended, seek no more, 
The soul thou seekest waits for thee above, 
And thine shall join it, surely, as God lives. 
For love is wrapped around thee like a cloak — 
The love of her thou seekest and her God's. 
Thy quest is ended now, seek thou no more. 

Here in the spirit, Caius, I can see 

More than thou wotst of, more than I e'er thought 

That it were possible for man to see. 

I crave thy pardon that I doubted thee — 

That true artistic fancy is divine; 

I thought thy youth's fond dreamings coddling knaves. 

This statue here is proof enough and more 

That memory hath such hold upon the soul, 

That it can make it turn life's pages back 

Through cycling centuries to find one page, 

And say unto it, copy this, re-read, 

And memory guides the hand, and lo, 'tis done. 

The things we do are placed unto our hand 
By dominating forces, that unseen 
Command our actions and direct our lives. 
We are but tools that carve and paint and sing, 
What long gone pasts have often done before. 
We but perpetuate some precious thing, 
To bury sorrow or embalm a joy — 

-23- -e 



To point the path of wisdom or of fame, 

To see our darkness from the heights of light." 

For many moments Caius' startled gaze 
Has rested on the vision, ere his sense 
Takes in the vital meaning of the words 
That fall upon his ear. Then with a voice 
That gathers calmness as he speaks, he says: 
"Dear honored master, from my very heart 
I thank thee for thy love and care for me, 
But, O thou noble spirit of my friend, 
Though all my soul hath drunk a brimming cup 
Where wisdom's fountains welled up to my lips; 
Yet what then meanest thou of former lives? 
Vague visions have come over me at times, 
As through a curtain partly blown aside, 
One catches fleeting glimpses of a scene 
One should remember, but the curtain falls 
With one pin point of memory only left." 

"Caius, there was a law laid down of God, 

Before the earth and heavens had any form, 

That every soul except a chosen few, 

Should have no knowledge of a former life, 

So that the human should not build again 

Upon foundations that had passed away; 

I, as thou knowest well, have studied much 

Yet never to this hour have known the truth 

Of any mortal, till, with spirit eyes, 

Freed from the grosser flesh, my wandering gaze 

Hath chanced upon the trail that leadeth back 

To that immortal from whose mighty loins 

Hath sprung, through changing centuries manifold, 

Most wonderous lives, aye, epoch-making lives, 

—24- 



That gave to man what never yet before 
The cycling ages gave for prototype. 

If to annihilation came a soul, 
Or it were -doomed to everlasting pain, 
And it had half the glory which is thine, 
It well might smile and suffer and be still. 
For one there was who gave to man a God, 
And all the world's his debtor. 

I must go. 
'Tis vain to question further; ask no more," 
As Caius makes a motion as to speak, 
"The truths that ring out on the spirit sense, 
In clear-cut chimes, no mortal senses hear. 
Before thy passage thou shalt know it all; 
This night is full of portents, big with fate; 
The air around me throbs with living fire, 
That only needs one chance electric spark 
To reach mortality. 

Caius, attend; 
The humble spirit seeketh after God; 
Thy path to love is through the gates of death; 
Seek thou the mercy that forgiveth much; 
Thy long probation is at last to end. 
I shall be with thee still when all is done; 
Gather thy strength; the hour of trial comes. 
God bless thee, ever bless thee; f are-thee-well. " 

The voice grows faint, then silent, and there falls 
A sunbeam on the place wherein there stood 
The spirit form of Caius' early friend; 
And at that moment to his longing eyes 
The old man seems transfigured in the light; 

-25— 



Then, as the gathering shadows close him in, 
Some lingering echo whispers, "Fare-thee-well"; 
And so the vision vanishes. 



The night shades creep with stealthy, silent feet, 
And one by one the lingering day-beams fade, 
And only here and there a wandering star, 
Between the broken edges of the clouds, 
Peers down into the Chapel like an eye 
Whose lid is heavy with its unshed tears. 

And Caius, as one walking in a dream, 
Goes up the winding stairway to the place 
Where the great organ looms athwart the gloom. 
Here seated at the instrument he plays 
With sudden pauses, whispering interludes, 
As one who, lost within a labyrinth, 
Awaits a guiding hand to lead him forth. 

Earth holds one thing that in our hours of pain, 

Humiliation, sorrow, and despair, 

Hath ever Balm in Gilead for the heart, 

Hath ever a nepenthe that can lift 

Man's tortured soul above the woes of life, 

And bring it into close and sweet rapport 

With the diviner essences of God; 

Can link the finite with infinitude — 

The power of music. 

In our hours of ease, when from above 

The dews of healing fall in gentle rain, 

And trouble, pain, and sorrow stalk afar, 

And their dark forms, seen through a silver mist, 

-26- 



Make the contrasting happiness more great — 
Then music adds a crowning crown to joy; 
Up climbs the soul upon its golden stairs 
And sublimates its issues. 

God is good, 
He gives us music when He gives us life. 
When thou art lonely, weary and beset, 
Go lay thy head on Harmony's sweet heart, 
And she shall croon thee Heaven's lullabys, 
And put thy infant sorrows fast asleep. 
Life turns to music as a baby turns 
And nestles to the mother's breast for food; 
As sunflowers turn and face the morning light, 
To drink the sweetness in. 

There's music in the soul of everything, 

The human and the brute, the high, the low; 

It ripples down the gamut of all lives. 

Some keys are clogged and others move with ease^ 

Yet every key doth answer to the fork 

Of the great Master, when he strikes the tune; 

From bass to treble nature joins the song 

With all her sounding chords. 

This is no fiction, for in very truth 

There is connection 'twixt this world of bass 

And the melodious tenors in the sky. 

"The music of the spheres" is not bombast, 

Our souls have heard it murmuring in our ears. 

The poet and the dreamer only may, 
And only now and then, catch fleeting hold 
Of any single thread of music twined 
In and around the unseen things of God. 

-27- 



But thank Him, then, for only "now and then," 
That shows one corner of a heaven-born score, 
To poet or to dreamer and they see. 

The inborn longings of the soul uplift 

Its chained hands, and tearing at its bonds, 

The broken shackles of the body fall 

And leave it free to flesh its new-fledged wings, 

Until its pinions brush against the bars 

That separate the human and divine, 

And so inspired behold. 

And Caius, as one playing in a dream, 
Can feel the chords of music in his brain 
Throw out celestial symphonies and songs, 
Th ,t float among the arches overhead, 
And then rebounding sing within his heart. 

The air is pregnant with harmonic sound; 
And mingling in, enveloped in its folds, 
Angelic rythmicles of prayer and praise 
Upraising life above the things of time, 
Until it touches Heaven and it can feel 
The spray of waves that eddy from the floods 
That lap the throne, the very heart and soul 
Of music and of song. 

Caius plays on and on, the music sighs, 
And moans in basic chords and undertones, 
Then seems to break away and rise on high, 
And pull an answer downward from the sky: 

Glory to God in the highest, praise; 
Glory to God through endless days; 
Peace on earth and good will to men, 
For love crowneth justice — Amen — amen. 

-28- 



Who sang or played it Caius never knew, 

Save music's voice had aspirated God. 

And now he plays no more. What more to play, 

When Heaven's grand Te-Deum fills his soul. 

His hands fall crashing on the organ keys. 

The dreamer has awakened. "Peace on earth," 

He whispers softly, "peace for me, and love." 

Then he arises from his seat and goes 

With reverent feet, as one should always go 

From any temple which man worships in, 

Out at the door and so along the path, 

In through the Castle hall and to the rooms 

That he hath furnished for his own abode. 

Here he hath dwelt for many weary years, 

With only two tried servitors, alone. 

And here he works and dreams and pictures out 

On canvas or in marble, what doth stay 

His passing fancy for the passing hour. 

Each room is fitly furnished for its use, 

And he hath gathered in them odds and ends, 

Those priceless things a traveler only gets 

In old forgotten corners of the world. 

Rare jewels, ancient pictures, statues, books, 

Priceless indeed, but he hath wealth to spare. 

He passes by them without thought or glance, 
And entering his chamber goes to where 
A modern window has been quarried, torn 
With labor infinite through stubborn walls; 
And from its deep embrasure gazes down 
Upon the vast expanse of hill and dale, 
Which lies enshrouded in the distance dim, 
Lit up by random starbeams, and the gleam 

-29— 



And shimmering splendor of electric fires. 
The gods are using shuttles made of flame, 
And weaving mantles for the massing clouds, 
And golden backgrounds for the mountain peaks. 
The scene is fair as Eden in its prime; 
The very valleys seem to lift themselves, 
And toss up odor from their flower-strewn hearts; 
The very mountain tops seem bending down, 
And holding hands of blessing over all. 

So is the scene to Caius' dreaming gaze, 
"Yes, beautiful," he mutters, "could it last, 
But no external beauty lasts on earth. 
Beauty has wings that never fold for long, 
And blest is he, who when the bird hath flown, 
Finds she has left one feather in his grasp." 

One moment's silence and he speaks again: 

" 'Twas kind of Theodosius, dear old man; 

The power he has is wonderful indeed. 

'I came to warn thee that the end is near.' 

Well, well, I am content, for life is woe; 

At best a curtain pierced here and there 

With small pin-holes through which the soul sees light, 

And death can hang no darker curtain up. 

I'm tired, tired, tired," he repeats, 

"The stress of this last hour has been too much. 

Could I but pray to God and know he heard, - 

What would I ask for? Which, for life or death? 

I do not know indeed, but did I ask 

For love; great heavens, the vision said to me, 

'Thy path to love is through the gates of death;' 

Then give me death for I am worn with life. 

—30- 



Words cannot alter fate, God knoweth best, 

He giveth and withholdeth at His will, 

He is the Father, we His children are; 

Rich blessings fall we deem are things of naught, 

And evils judged are blessings in disguise. 

Yes, we are only children all our days; 

God knoweth best, His will, not mine, be done." 

Midnight draws on and Caius lies asleep; 
His face relaxed and still shows worn and white. 
He hardly breathes, and in his half shut eyes 
There is that deadly look of glassy calm, 
That turns our warmest pulses into ice, 
That shivers down into the mourner's heart, 
And racks the soul with agony and tears. 

But Caius is not dead, the wheels still move. 

Time only pauses and runs back awhile; 

The dual lives within him for the hour 

Have separated only, and the soul 

Has simply drawn away unto the end 

Of that most brittle thread which holds it bound 

Unto the coarser fibers of the flesh. 

The peace of God broods on the nest of sleep, 
With folded pinions settles softly down, 
As dusky night unfolds her dreamy robes, 
And sings her mother-lullaby of peace. 
Visions and dreams are etchings from the past, 
Re-hung by memory on the walls of sleep; 
And as the artist sleeps, with dream-swung rod 
The great magician parts the prison walls, 
That curb the lifting of the spirit's wings; 
And as the walls of Jericho fell down 

-31- 



Before the holy songs of Israel's host, 
These separate, totter, crumble into dust, 
And to his gaze the sealed up tombs of time 
Open up wide and marshal forth their dead, 
And from the mouldering pages of the past, 
He reads the vital lessons of his life. 

And Caius dreams, and dreaming lives the dream; 
The close-shut portals of the ages turn 
Upon the noiseless hinges of a sleep. 

O sleep, thou offspring of eternal peace, 

Thou gentle goddess from the realms of rest, 

Thou comest clad in somber garniture, 

But on thy queenly head a starry crown; 

Thou takest all earth's children to thy heart, 

And at thy touch life's troubled waves grow still; 

And thou dost reign supreme; at thy command 

Glory's shekinah buds and bursts to bloom, 

And Truth and Love stand hand in hand, unveiled, 

Before the Great-White-Throne, 

Like twin hand-maidens at the Master's feet; 

And knowledge flashes on the startled soul, 

As lightning rends the storm-cloud and the night. 



-32- 



Ill 

Dream, O my soul, and gather thou in dreams 
The rose of Heaven, and throw its leaves broadcast, 
And pin its petals on the human heart — 
Its blush rose petals on the heart of time. 



HEAVEN 

Where swelling tides of perfume rise and fall 
Upon the limpid, undulating air, 
And all the melodies of nature melt 
And blend together in one flood of song; 
Where everything that lives and moves and is y 
That has created and creative force, 
Is part and parcel of the one great whole; 
Where beauty piled on beauty greets the soul; 
Wherein the golden vase of being stands 
Filled to the brim, in which if one more drop 
Should fall, one single, tiny drop the more, 
Its shining shell would break with too much joy, 
The ecstasy of living passeth speech; 
Where tireless fountains of eternal love 
Lift up their own sweet waters to the lip 

-33- 



And fill the soul until it runneth o'er 

With blessing and to bless — 

This — there — is Heaven, and over that is God, 

The great, immaculate, almighty God. 

And this is Heaven, where nature's loveliest forms 
Born of perfection glorify their birth; 
Where giant mountains stand, upon whose breasts 
Suns rise and set and leave their splendor there; 
And at their bases dales and valleys lie 
Like jeweled hammocks swinging in between; 
Where every spot hath something far beyond 
Man's loftiest wisdom or his wildest dreams. 
Could thought think out the picture cut in twain, 
With less than half its wonder, glory, power, 
And paint it for the world, this life would kneel 
And pray for death to come, that it might see 
And never leave its knees until it died. 

All one can say in stumbling words is this — 

That here is worship, but not here alone, 

Nor on the mountain-top, nor in the vale, 

For where life stands angelic, there it is; 

It needs no voice to praise, no words to pray, 

For every soul-pulsation utters God. 

The scene is like an angel's dream of peace, 

Yet full to overflow with motion, life; 

Full with a mighty undertone of sound, 

That yet doth only throne a peace on peace. 

Hark! on the rythmic swaying of the spheres, 
Upon the rolling melody of worlds, 
Among, above those echoing strains divine, 
As soars aloft the singer's sweetest notes 

—34- 



On organ wings of music to the sky; 

As drops to earth the matin-lark's sweet song, 

Through dawn-kissed deeps of azure from above, 

To lay its hymn of Heaven on discord's breast, 

A "still-small-voice" comes resonant and clear, 

That seems to tell all living, listening things 

Of full achievement, boundless joy attained, 

Of peace transfiguring, and wondrous love, 

A universe of love all pent within 

The binding compass of that "still small voice," 

"Where ye are, O beloved, there am I." 

So tender comes that low melodious voice, 
The waiting silence shudders with delight; 
Peace falls asleep beside the stream of joy, 
And love lies dreaming in the arms of peace. 
A dazzling and resplendent glory shines 
Athwart the milky distances of space; 
A pure, white radiance fills the nearer skies, 
An all-pervading presence, felt not seen, 
Seems guiding every heart-beat of the worlds; 
Some soft electric and mesmeric power 
Brings into touch the souls of all alike 
With the Great-Overruling-Master-Soul, 
Till every separate portion of the whole 
Conforms into the will and wish of Him, 
Who is the ocean to its drops of rain. 

"Where ye are, O beloved, there am I," 
And all the Heavens listen till the voice 
Melts into echoes soft and low and sweet, 
And dies away as though 'twere taken back 
Into the womb of music and was mute. 



And now, as though in answer to a call, 

There comes from far the sound of gathering hosts, 

The murmuring monotone of voices blent 

And joined together into songs of praise; 

Of rushing pinions that seem keeping time 

To something in them that goes singing on 

In the immortal cadences of God. 

And look, upon the light a greater light, 

That lifts and blazes upward on the pearl 

And gold of the enfolding ether 

Overhead, a glory-light that pierces through 

And through the Heavens, from utmost bound to bound. 

And in the body of that glory, wings, 

The countless wings of angels, flash and flame 

Like living sword-blades damascened of suns. 

And this, this host innumerable of souls, 

Is power, almighty will, and wisdom crowned, 

Swayed and upheld by Him who thrones the pure, 

Because He knows the absolutes of truth. 

This mass of visible, immortal mind 
Moves by one impulse towards its central heart, 
And the last shimmer of its shining forms, 
As when the sun at eve leaves on its trail 
Reflected splendors, fades as they too fade 
Into the twilight shadows cool and gray. 

And here, among these soft and silent shades, 
This silent scene below the silent stars, 
A presence grand and noble stands alone. 
His front is like a god's, yet on his face 
The seal of pride and limitless desire. 
Why waits this one of all that angel host 
Alone? Here is no hermitage for pride, 

-36— 



No mete and bound for limitless desire. 

Why bears his face these imprints not of Heaven, 

And not the clear white luster of a soul 

Born into being from the deeps of love? 

Why stands. he here alone, unhappy, here? 

Behold, e'en now the pride has left his face, 

And pride's ambitions with its fell desires, 

But-shame and agony too deep for words 

Have risen in their places. Black despair 

Is tearing at his heart-strings with both hands. 

Who art thou, then, with these upon thy face, 

These deadly human attributes of pain? 

Art thou a fallen seraph, or art thou 

The shade of him whose far outgrasping soul 

Would e'en have murdered love and good and God, 

To pamper vanity and pride and lust, 

And reigned a very king of hell in Heaven? 

Hast thou returned to add a loss to loss, 

Another woe to woe as great as thine? 

See, round his form the gathering shadows fall, 

And all the light is shrinking, shuddering back, 

And all the soft, sweet essences around 

Seem laden with a burden strange and dread. 

And now there bursts from out his struggling breast 

A stifled moan of agony so deep 

That at the sound the sleeping echoes wake, 

Repeat, re-echo, and repeat again, 

Until from out the distances of space, 

As roar of sullen waves upon the shore, 

The sound comes back reverberating woe, 

And beating downward on his throbbing heart, 

Mourns like a funeral dirge in monotone. 

—37— 



"And thou, my love," he whispers, "where art thou?" 
The thought doth barely clothe itself in words, 
When at his side there stands a vision sweet; 
So wondrous sweet the frowning shadows flee, 
And all the light comes back in one great flood 
That wraps them round and round in one embrace; 
It smiles upon his face, from hers it smiles, 
And laughs and dimples dizzy with its joy. 

Nor tongue nor pen hath yet been known on earth 

That could word-picture presence such as this. 

Her form is clad in shimmering robes of pearl, 

Ethereal robes of interwoven light 

That half conceal it and yet half confess. 

Her eyes are like two purple pansy blooms 

With slumberous lids whose creamy, long-lashed folds 

Droop shyly down as though they hid a joy. 

Her hair, the golden glory of the noon, 

Doth wrap her like a mantle to her feet; 

Her sweet, small mouth is like some half blown rose; 

Her pouting lips are challengers to joy, 

That beg for kisses, and yet speak no word; 

The lily blushes on this lovely face 

Where every new emotion holds the brush 

To paint another charming beauty there; 

It is an April face without its tears; 

Pure womanhood, the sweetest thought of God, 

Bedecks her like a crown. 

And this is love, the goddess, and her love. 

Here is no infant cupid, baby-winged, 

But rich, ripe beauty, in each curve and line 

A lurking, luring beauty, yet as pure 

As any maiden-soul hath known in dreams 

-38- 



Of mother love and beauty shrined in Heaven. 
Here is the type which first in Heaven was set, 
Which nature tries to copy, but in vain, 
Though is that failure nature's noblest work. 
Here was the first die cast and by this soul 
Who standeth here, the potter with his clay, 
Full moulded and complete. 

Take from the languages of all the worlds 
The purest, dearest, most enticing words, 
Take all the painted, chiseled dreams of art, 
Then pluck the fairest flowers the sun shines on, 
And thou shalt find no speech or dream or flower 
To show thee what I mean. 

Hark, she is speaking and her gentle voice 
Is like a chime of silver bells in tune, 
With that low undertone one hears at times 
When rich contralto seems to clasp and hold 
Some sweet soprano buoyed up in its arms; 
The light of love is on her angel face 
And all its fullness vibrates in her voice, 
Its tender tones beat up against the heart 
Of sin and sorrow like the soothing sound 
Of falling waters in a thirsty land. 

"Here at thy side, Adamus, here am I, 
As always at thy will and thy desire, 
Thy soul's eternal part, thy love, thy wife; 
Eons on eons since, when from thy brain 
I sprang full grown to perfect womanhood, 
I have been thine, for in thy life I live 
Accomplished end to thy divine ideal. 
Thy will and wisdom made me what I am, 

-39- 



For, as thou knowest, I do but express 
Here unto God the beauty of thy thought. 
I heard thee call my name." 

When first that voice of music reached his ear 

It seemed to drive away the gloom of pain, 

And let the light flow back upon his face, 

As when a mother croons above her babe, 

And quivering lips grow still and smile again, 

But when it ceased, as though half dazed, half dead, 

He stood one moment, then the gloom, the pain, 

Returned augmented by a greater pain. 

His senses woke to dreadful life and thought, 

Remembering now the crowning woe of all, 

That this his love, his heart's desire, was lost. 

He wrung his hands and battled for control: 

"She must not know," he whispers in his soul, 
He clinched his teeth to shut his anguish in, 
But even angels have not powers of God; 
In his despite one awful moan of pain 
Broke from his bosom, tore his teeth apart, 
And crashed upon the silence of the scene, 
As thunder crashes down a sun-lit noon 
From cloudless skies of azure overhead, 
On love and beauty dreaming underneath. 

As startled fawn, that ne'er has heard before 

The tiger's yell, stands palsied at the cry 

And cannot stir, though fain is it to flee, 

So she half turned to fly yet standing still, 

Till that first weakening, shuddering moment passed, 

Swift to his breast she goes and clinging there 

In wide-eyed wonder murmurs of her love, 

-40— 



Presses love's soothing lips upon his own, 
And nestles close to him as if to guard, 
From what she cares not, his most precious life, 
Her love has panoplied her woman's soul 
'Gainst any foe. 

And this is woman's love, 
From Heaven's first woman down to that last one, 
That fate shall say to, give thy life for his, 
Live that he die not, die that he shall live. 

Long stands he there within that tender coil 
Until like one awakened from a trance 
He gently puts her from him. 

And his face, 
When finally he speaks, is calm once more, 
And lifted as though power had come to him. 
And now he questions all things, even God: 

"Thou art so steadfast, why am 1 so weak? 
Within thy shadow how could I have sinned 
Against the primal laws of Heaven and Thee? 
The balances of Justice weigh my deeds, 
And find them wanting and I am condemned. 
But Mercy, where art thou, art thou asleep, 
Or doth Jehovah hold thy struggling hands 
Lest thy too tender heart balk greater good? 
Thy child, Forgiveness, hath not yet been born, 
But time shall pluck it from thy very womb, 
Forced to that issue by the might of sin. 
O Sin, thou stain, thou shame, why art thou here? 
Could not Good's angels numberless, untold, 
Have kept thy fiends within the nether deeps? 

-41— 



Here is perfection and no room for thee, 

Nor Ignorance, thy father. Oh my sin! 

Would I could wipe it from my heart and brain, 

And be once more as pure as once I was, 

As thou art, O thou white winged blessing, still." 

"My love," she cries, "my love, why what is sin? 

I know the meaning of each word and sign 

That here is spoken or which stands for speech, 

For only yester eve Dyanthus said 

That there was nothing he could teach me more; 

What is the meaning of this baneful word 

That puts discordant notes into thy voice, 

That saps thy strength, that sears thy face with pain? 

Tell me, Adamus, tell me, I would know." 

"Thou, thou wouldst know? poor child, what good to know? 
But sometime that must be, as well know now: 
Yes, I will tell thee, gently as I may: 

Among the many languages of Heaven 
There are no words that can define it right; 
'Tis Heaven's great enigma, save to Him, 
Who knows alike its mission and its end; 
'Tis coin issued from another mint, 
For on its face it bears the devil's die, 
On its reverse it hath another stamp, 
Evil is there, misfortune, and despair. 

Thou knowest partly what the meaning is 

Of evil, for, when in this brain of mine 

My wish for love and thee had taken shape 

And that sweet wish had blossomed into life; 

When in the sight of all and at God's feet 

Thou knelt complete, there came a voice which said, 

'Call this one Eve, for evil is her heritage.' 

—42- 



The nearness of great glory blinded thee, 

Thou sawest not what makes me tremble still 

With joy or pain, I know not which obtains; 

I did not tell thee then, there was no need, 

But now thy wish compels, and this last hour 

I saw stern Justice bow his head, I heard 

Him sigh. I saw from Mercy's tender eyes 

Great tear-drops fall and glisten on her robe, 

But on the face of God I saw a light 

That grew into the glory of His smile, 

It turned all Mercy's shining tears to pearls, 

As, with His hands he gathers all the drops 

Save one alone, aye every other drop 

And placed them in the diadem He wore. 

When Justice also saw he raised his head, 

And there, upon his forehead, blazed a star, 

And in its center was the other pearl. 

I would that I could read this wondrous thing, 

It is a riddle wrought of good and ill, 

And, blest be God, the good is there for thee, 

The ill for me, I fear, it is but just; 

The future when the years unroll its scroll 

Will doubtless there have written what it means. 

I would, too, I could tell thee more of sin 
Than is within my knowledge of my own, 
For it may touch thee also, God grant not. 
I will not go beyond what I do know, 
For bare conjecture maketh lies of truths 
More often than it doth establish them. 
Sin is transgression of the laws that rule, 
It hath a power inherent in itself 
To make thee find within the heart of good 
A very dagger, that shall pierce thy heart, 

-43— 



And not thine only, but thy brother's too. 
And sin is born of pride and fell desire, 
Of intellectual ignorance, of mind 
That glories in its glory howe'er great. 

All good is sin's anthithesis, its foe, 

And is the simple dictates of good sense; 

Each soul is part and parcel of that One 

Who reigns supreme through wisdom's right to reign; 

And any soul that sins doth filch a good 

From cumulative good that ends in God. 

Ultimate wisdom is good's mighty throne, 

Sin is false wisdom and wrong use of powers 

Divinely organized for ends divine; 

It brings from basic laws, good in themselves, 

Conclusions dire that wreck the soul's fair ship 

On hidden rocks that lurk beneath the sea, 

The wide, outreaching sea, the changeless sea, 

That flows around the purposes of God; 

That endless sea that He alone hath chart 

And compass for. 

The laws of good and ill 
Rule all Heaven's principalities and powers, 
Begin and end in things determinate, 
In beings positive necessities, 
And are incumbent on the smallest mote, 
The tiniest atom, and the universe, — 
But much of this thou knowest well, my Eve." 

"Dear love," she says, "from what does all this come? 
How out of good could sin and Satan spring? 
Where, then, and what the great primeval cause, 
The great first cause, would that not be a God 

-44- 



Than ours more glorious, and than ours more strong? 
Who is Jehovah if He doth not hide 
The roots of being in His heart of hearts? 
From what source, pray, originate these laws 
That brook no change and must perforce exist?" 

"How out of good," he cries, "could sin arise? 

Have I not flung that question through all space 

From lowest pits of darkness where doom dwells, 

To highest heights of glory and in vain? 

And what is primal force, the-great-first-cause, 

As thou dost name it, child, thy questions fly 

Out of the high-hung eyrie of thy thoughts; 

Are thy mind's pinions yet so far untried 

Able to bear thee up within the deeps, 

Below the voids, and bring thee back again, 

O'erburdened with thy wonder-weighted thoughts, 

Back to thy eagle-nest? I fear me not; 

To tell thee what it is my words must take 

Thy tender spirit down through horror's home, 

Through black, chaotic realms where seethe and roar 

The yet unchained elements of power, 

And down below this still where nothing is, 

Or rather seems to be, then still below. 

Is it not better that we let that pass?" 

"Oh no," she snswers him, "I pray thee tell, 
Where thou hast been in body cannot I 
In mind, if not in body, go unharmed? 
It is the half of thine, it should be strong." 

"Well be it so," Adamus says, "'tis this, 
The primal force is — " but he says no more, 
A blaze of light shoots downward from above 

—45— 



And burns beside him with a flame of fire, 
And from that flame a voice speaks in his ear — 
"Hold thou thy words, wouldst make her also sin? 
Wouldst heap a double sin upon thy soul? 
What else thou wishest tell her, but not this." 

The flame dies out, the voice to silence falls, 
And for one shivering moment he stands dumb; 
It seems to him that hours have passed away 
When he again looks on the face of Eve, 
But in that face there is no sign of fear, 
Love's beauty blushes there in perfect peace; 
She hath not heard, she hath not heard, he thinks. 

"The primal force is what?" he hears her ask, 
Her voice still holds its old melodious calm. 

"Wait," he says dreamily, "one moment, wait, 
Then I will tell thee why I will not tell;" 
And when he speaks his voice is tense and low, 
And sighs of misery rattle in his throat: 

"This is another shame that I must bear 

For had I told thee, on thy queenly head 

Sin's thorny crown had settled. Woe is me! 

I would have made thee like unto myself, 

Not consciously thou knowest. But learn this — 

Unconscious sin is sin against the law; 

I knew I must not tell this truth to all, 

But thou art half my soul. It seemed to me 

It was but telling over unto thine what mine 

Had seen. Thank Him that I was stopped in time." 

"I do," she says with tender looks and smiles, 
"I tempted thee, the fault is mine not thine, 

-46- 



But he forgives it for my love's sweet sake; 
I know that from the face He turne'd to me, 
When first the lightning flashed beside thy form; 
I also heard His voice, His every word, 
But I was not afraid, I know not why, 
For I had "hoped to make thy sin my own. " 

"Oh greater love," Adamus cries, "than this 

Is known of none. And thou wouldst stain thy soul 

To save my soul. My sweetheart, dearest, I — " 

His sob-choked tongue refuses other words, 

And so he clasps her close and with his lips 

Kisses upon her lips love-words unsaid. 

When from this rapturous symphony of love 
They wake, when passes from both soul and sense 
The last sweet melody it leaves behind, 
He speaks once more: 

"The time is fleeing by 
And that I have to tell thee must be told 
Before the hour for numbering the hosts. 
So to thy question who Jehovah is, 
There is a law of which thou knowest naught, 
The law of evolution, 'tis the dower 
Of all existence be it great or small, 
From dust and ashes to the power of God 
It throned that power and crowned it here on high. 

The vital law is this, all things must grow 
Because the tiniest atom throbs with life, 
Because below that atom lies its source 
Instinct with force and quick with living soul, 
(Of which I am forbidden more to say. ) 
So starting with atomic life and power, 

-47— 



Where both are governed with fixed rules of growth, 

All evolution doth mount up and up, 

And broaden out by piling mite on mite, . 

And force on force, till ages have grown gray; 

Until the clock of time peals forth the hour, 

The moment, then behold a mighty mass 

That can equip another Heaven like this, 

Can furnish forth yon panoply of suns 

And moons and stars, yon rolling systems 

And revolving worlds. And this goes on and on, 

Forever and forever. 

Now attend, 
All power makes power, and evolution's force 
Hath built up heart and intellect and soul, 
Therein formed forces greater than itself, 
And from these greater forces springeth God; 
Yet not directly for where normal force 
Crowns evolution's head with life's great three, 
There these three stand and there evolve their God. 
By intent, purpose, and sheer force of will 
Heaven's countless hosts have wrought Him of themselves, 
In Him condensed all wisdom and all might, 
And all their highest attributes and powers, 
In Him, the Infinite, Immortal One. 
And so Completion sits upon the Throne 
Whose vast foundations span the universe. . 

The visible expression He is, then, 

Of the invisible, of the unknown. 

Thou knowest what He is, hope, truth, and love; 

The power of all the hosts of Heaven is His, 

And all our destinies are in His hands. 

In time's prolific fullness He came forth, 

Its Gloria-in-Excelsis. Call Him El, 

-48- 



Jehovah-Jireth, and the King of kings, 

Omega and not Alpha, for He is 

An apex on a mighty pyramid, 

The bottom stones of which are lost beneath 

Eternities forgotten. 

Now, my sweet, 
'Tis time to end my words, but these few more 
To answer thy last question, what is law? 
Wherever is existence there is force, 
And force necessitates the sway of law, 
For force and law fly ever wing and wing; 
Ail laws are co-existent that hold weight 
And form co-eval cycles where they rule. 

Environments, conditions, make the law, 

Out of their inmost needs that law doth spring 

Full grown and perfect for 'tis nature's law, 

Writ with her finger, dipped in her own blood. 

But weak-kneed wisdom can enthrone no law, 

Nor ignorance, for what they do is naught, 

Therefore, all law which springs from natural need 

Is carved indelibly upon the hearts 

Of truth and wisdom, is eternal law 

That never changes and perforce exists. 

And this is why one must obey the law, 

And all, in God, enforce the law's decrees, 

For He doth represent for one and all 

The culminating capstone of the law." 

And now, e'en as he speaks a choir of bells 
Sings through the Heavens, and as he hears his face, 
That erst had flashed with energy of thought, 
Grows wan and shrunken; like a flood rolls back 
The ocean of his anguish, for he knows 

-49— 



Those music-bells, those far off, happy bells, 

Ring out great peace and more exalted joy 

To all save him; to him they bring down doom, 

Its hour of parting, and its hour of woe. 

Then like some mountain on whose rock-ribbed head 

Cyclonic cataclysms raging break 

And disappearing leave few traces there, 

So from his face he forces back the flood 

And wills his lips to smile, his voice \o speak 

In these last moments calmly as before: 

"My Eve," he says, "here thou and I must part; 

That I have been a fool I know full well, 

For fools and eke their follies march in pairs, 

What else would search for what could not be found, 

Or being found dismember and destroy? 

What else would strive to make the future lay 

Aside its veil; what else would make complete 

A present incompleteness save these twain, 

That, knowing well of evolution's law, 

Would force the fruit of ages to quick growth? 

Too late I see that we can only read 

The writing that is written. Even God 

Hath not the power to write one letter there; 

Cycles of years can only spell one word, 

And centuries only add one sentence more. 

To seek to change development of force 
Is sin and ignorance; but this alone 
Had not condemned me, though it capped the fool; 
Had only brought me to a lower plane, 
And left me there to work my swift way back 
To wisdom's feet with reinstated powers — 
Aye, left me there with peace and love and thee, 

-ao- 



But my great sin, my greatest sin of all 

Is this, is this — I sought the primal force, 

I sought it and I found it. When I did, 

I stood in rapt amaze, my very soul 

Within me grew and grew until my form 

Seemed taking on the stature of our God. 

Then foul ambition seethed within my breast, 

And pride came up from Hell and burned my brows, 

And Belial-thoughts scorched through and through my mind 

And once I uttered this, 'I might be He,' 

But suddenly from somewhere in myself 

A voice shrieked through me, 'So did Satan fall 

From folded glory to unfolding gloom; 

Thou standest trembling on that awful verge 

From which he plunged to everlasting fire;' 

Then Fear arose and scourged me with his whip, 

And I, I fled that place. 

My soul grows faint 
E'en now, in telling thee of this, my sin, 
It drives me hence from all I hold most dear. 

Long I have hidden from all eyes this thing, 
E'en thy clear vision failed the truth to see, 
I thought to hide it from my conscience too, 
But that hath stopped me in my mad career 
And led me bound and fettered to be judged 
Before the great tribunal of all good; 
Arraigned of that I am condemned and doomed, 
And must go forth dishonored and alone." 

"No, not alone," she cries, "I go with thee, 
But let me ask thee this: why needst thou go? 
Doth any know the madness of thy quest? 
And who is he who shall stand forth and say, 

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'Adamus, thou hast sinned?' Among thy peers 
There are no little souls, below thee, none, 
Above thee only God, and God is good, 
For He doth know thy sin and saith not, 'Go!' 
Then who is thy accuser?" 

"I, myself," 
Adamus sadly answers, "dost thou think 
That I, or any in that glittering throng 
That circle God's almighty throne of power 
Needs other accusation than his own? 
Needs other condemnation? No, alas, 
The soul accuses, and the soul condemns; 
The good within me dominates the ill 
And cries to every atom, thou hast sinned. 
Yea, I have sinned and therefore must I go. 
Banished from Heaven, what means that awful word? 
Descent, dethronement, and the dire despair 
Of utter desolation." 

"Dear, my lord," 
Eve interrupts, "was it a sin, I pray, 
That thou wast tempted? That can not be so; 
Thou didst resist ambition's luring voice. 
That evil wish of thine was barely thought, 
When what thou callest something cried, 'beware!' 
Was not that something He who never sleeps?" 

"Temptation is not sin," he slowly says, 

"But I was tempted, and I know myself, 

My soul doth long unutterably for fame, 

For high pre-eminence above the rest, 

And as I know myself I fear that I 

Shall finally oppose. That sends me forth 

Self-banished, self-condemned, to seek some spot, 

-52- 



Some other lower world, where I may build 

On surer, firmer base my pillared towers, 

Until they top their pinnacles with light 

Caught from some flashing sunburst of the truth; 

This light may pierce to Heaven and write my name 

Upon the record book which Justice holds, 

And God may see and say: 'Come, sin no more.' 

Farewell, my love, I go." 

"Why that to me?" 
She says, "farewell may unclasp other hearts 
And other hands, and bodies, but not ours, 
Thou art with me but one completed whole, 
And thought which formulates within thy breast 
Hath instant imprint deep within my own; 
My mind but mirrors thine, it is of thee. 
If there be sin then that must halve the wrong, 
And subdivide its issues. Didst thou think, 
(Thy mind indeed must be far overwrought) 
To hide from me the tumult in thy soul? 
E'en thy worn face hath told a sadder tale 
Than all thy grevious words. We cannot part, 
For love hath forged the links that fetter love; 
Those links may bend, but never can they break. 
I am the offspring of thy heart's desire, 
The re-embodied essence of thy will, 
Born of thy wish to see thyself again 
In all the glory of thy god-like form, 
Soul of thy soul, its blossom on thy heart." 

"Why wouldst thou tempt me?" Terrible his voice, 
"To sin as I have sinned, that is enough. 
Leave me, I pray thee, something of my pride. 
Eve, Hell's damnations which are deepest, worst, 

-53- 



That sink the soul to lowest depths below, 

Are our unselfish God's just punishments 

For selfishness." He shivers as with dread, 

Then, calmer, speaks: "True greatness is to serve, 

Serve grandly, and good would not be God, 

Or God be good did He not give to all 

The best within Him. He doth balance things, 

Out of His fullness doth He want supply, 

He gratifieth every holy wish, 

Which holy doth become when it is just; 

He is creation's equipoise. So I 

Must go alone and leave thee here; O God, 

Though I do love thee better than myself, 

My beautiful, my beautiful, my Eve; 

From life's eternities I go to long 

Eternities of life, for every life 

I live apart from thee must be one long 

Eternity." 

His voice dies out in groans upon the air 
That shrinks and shivers at the unused load, 
And the far ether gathering the sound 
In softened undertones, gives moan for moan, 
Like echo faint and distant from the beat 
Of muffled drums. 

"My love, my life, my lord," 
Eve's voice is weeping as with unshed tears, 
"Do understand me, thee I tempted not, 
I simply will to go with thee and shall, 
Though I but follow thee a long way off. 
Did not Jehovah tell thee ere my birth 
That thou wouldst but divide thyself in me, 
And halve thy will and wisdom in the deed, 

-54- 



And from this cause alone art thou debased; 

Thy power supreme now broken and destroyed, 

And this because of me? Believe not, then, 

That I would let thee go, leave thee alone 

To suffer for thy sin, to fight anew 

Through nature's primal laws creation's law-bound 

Battle to the end, whenever that may be. 

Remain apart through ages long and drear, 

Through time's slow creeping courses, and alone, 

Alone, apart from thee? No, never, no! 

My place is by thy side in weal or woe, 

And where thou goest there too I will go; 

Whether thou sittest on Good's highest throne, 

Or shalt descend the lowest pit of Hell, 

I go with thee, I will not stay behind. 

Thy hopes are mine, thy destiny mine own, 

And any arrows fate shall cast at thee 

Shall pierce my heart as well." 

"Thy words compel; 
So be it as thou wilt," he makes reply, 
"Thy love hath torn from off the head of ill 
Its crowning crown of sorrow, and from hope 
Hath stolen peace. Blessed be love and thee; 
Eternities of pain are easier borne 
If thou art by my side. How long the trial, 
And how great The Only One can tell; 
But this I know, within those lower realms 
The years cut off identities of life, 
The soul released from one poor prison-house 
Doth find another, where I know not now, 
But soul must build for ages, thou didst say, 
And that is true, but it must start at first 
From whatsoever plane it stands upon, 

-56- 



Mounting by slow degrees and step by step, 
Through far off futures and through separate lives, 
The stairways of progression. Sweet, my love, 
Think well of this, yet if thou wilt, 'tis well." 

"It needs not that I thank thee, for I knew 

My love would conquer, love is king of all; 

Yet thou art but convinced by thy own thoughts, 

That speak through me, for 'tis not I who think, 

But the divided half of thy own mind 

Communing with itself," she softly says, 

"This place, though Heaven, would be a very Hell, 

Or any other place that knew not thee. 

I thank thee too," she kneels and bows her head, 

"O thou, our Father, bless us ere we go." 

Her low, clear voice, which on the throbbing air 

Has borne its message of great love and peace 

Deep down within that storm-tossed, weary soul, 

And prayed a blessing from the soul of bliss, 

And sank to silence like a sweet song sung, 

Is echoed and re-echoed from afar 

In tonal numbers sweeter than her own, 

As though the keynote in her tender voice 

Had struck a chord of harmony and song, 

For like one thread of silver running through 

A silver veil of countless silver threads, 

One strain alone breathes out from all the rest; 

As if along the lines that stretch away 

In sweet, concentric rings from music's heart, 

And close within their arms of circling sound 

The universe of God, one single touch 

Could wake the sleeping tones of that great harp, 

That sings a symphony of opening buds, 

-56- 



And chants an anthem at the whirlwind's breath; 
Aye, just one tiny touch could stir its strings 
And key it to the tone which called it forth, 
Could then return its music-laden song 
Fresh with the dews of blessing, winged of love. 

Hark to the answer to her soul's sweet prayer: 

Love shall return to His mansions here, 
From His woe on earth to His joy above; 

Be brave and true, love casteth out fear; 
The redemption of sin shall come by love; 

For love is the corner stone of all; 

Springs from the heart of God alone; 
Listen whenever its voice shall call, 

For all thy sorrows shall love atone. 

They turn and gaze once more where light and life, 
And all the joys of living greet the soul 
With overflowing hands of bounteous good, 
Where Peace doth sleep upon the heart of Care, 
And uncrowned Hope lies on the breast of God, 
And look a long farewell. 

Then hand in hand, as echo softly dies, 
From that high home of crismal glory born 
They pass, on lagging pinions pass to where 
Heaven's outer battlements look down the deeps. 
He sighs with sorrow, but he smiles at her, 
She sighs with joy and looks at Heaven not him, 
And smiles and murmurs as the glory fades, 
"Yes, love is with me, I am not alone, 
'For all thy sorrows shall love atone!' " 

—57— 



When they had disappeared Love at the side 

Of God, His Father, rose and said to Him, 

"I go unseen of them to lead the way 

Unto the place prepared. Is it Thy will?" 

And io, the Father bent and kissed His Son, 

And where He pressed His lips a cross appeared, 

And when the angels round the Throne beheld, 

A mighty cry went up that rent the vault, 

And cut the ether like a lightning bolt, 

And all around the rolling thunder broke; 

And then a voice which pierced it through and through, 

Sweet as that voice Adamus heard before: 

" Glory to God and The Lamb Forevermore.''' 1 



EDEN 

Away in the distance there shines a star, 

A world the ceaseless throes of time have borne, 

And cast upon the universe of space 

To be another atom in the void, 

To add its mite unto creation's might, 

Its little quota to the central sum. 

Towards this they wend their swift and silent way; 

And ere the shadows of earth's night have closed, 

They, weary, tread its strange and quiet paths, 

And seek a couch within the sheltering shade, 

That seems to comfort them with its own peace. 

For in that olden day man's vandal hand 
Had not destroyed earth's living harmonies; 
Its virgin breast was gardened of the gods, 

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Where tree and flower rose upward from the sod 
In crowning beauty and in wreathing bloom, 
Yet undefiled, and spake to earth of Heaven. 
And all of these — its bloom-embroidered meads, 
Its shining streams, its dancing, laughing rills, 
Its silent woods, held out their scented arms 
To these two wandering children from the sky, 
In welcome and in love. 

And the night fell 
As gently as a curtain softly dropped, 
By mother-fingers near a cradled babe; 
And sleep shook off, from all her pinions, rest. 
A zephyr breathed around them as they slept, 
And fanned them with its wings, nor whispered in 
Their dreaming ears of aught but hope and joy; 
The stars looked down with tender eyes and smiled. 

MORNING IN EDEN 

Stealing from out the chambers of the night, 
A young, sweet maiden cometh coyly forth, 
Crowned with pale buds in yet unfolded bloom, 
In glittering robes besprent with dewy pearls, 
To keep her love tryst with the morning star, 
And kiss the day in on the mountain tops. 
And then she rises slowly up on high, 
And, lo, the radiance of her blushing face 
Spreads soft and silent through the eastern sky, 
With many a shimmering gleam of golden sheen, 
That in long level lines of vibrant light 
Darts through the bending arches of the wood, 
Wakes into life the lily's nodding cup, 
Touches with crimson ray the rose's heart, 
Toys with the violet by the mirroring brook, 

—59- 



And on the drowsy bosom of the lake 
Lies still and laughs at its reflection there. 
And myriad song birds rising from their nests 
Shake off the night-dews from their shining plumes, 
And mounting upward upon tireless wings 
Flash through the air in living shafts of flame, 
And carol forth their matin-hymns of praise. 

Around the hazy, distant sky-capped peaks, 
The trailing garments of the wind-swept clouds 
Have left a veil of glory-woven mist, 
That clothes the lofty summits of the rocks 
In pearl and gray and amber slashed with gold; 
Then like the filmy covering o'er the face 
Of some fair, sleeping virgin torn away 
By passion's glowing fingers, this is gone, 
And the new risen sun with face unveiled 
Pours in full tides of splendor on the scene. 
A maiden morning in a maiden world; 
Morning in Eden, beautiful. 



ADAM AND EVE 

Slow from his leafy couch Adamus rose 

While Eve slept on, and to his waking eyes 

This first bright vision of his future home 

Sheds on his heart a portion of its joys, 

But though his lips are smiling through them speaks 

The sadness of his soul: 

"This is not home, 

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This is a stopping place of little whiles; 

My glorious home — " just here his roving gaze 

Beholds the glory lying at his feet, 

"My home," his voice repeats, but not his thought, 

Then voice and heart and soul together say: 

"Where thou art, O my darling, there is home." 

He kneels and softly touches Eve, who stirs 

And nestless closer to his loving hand; 

And then he bends and kisses her and says: 

"I feel this must be true, this will be true, 
The Eves of time shall build from out their hearts 
Each mortal copy of immortal home, 
And where that earthly copy is most true 
There shall its inmates be the nearest Heaven." 

And now Adamus notes a thing so strange, 
And yet so beautiful he wonders much; 
Beneath Eve and above her, flowers entwined 
Make for her form both couch and covering. 

"The gods must love thee, sweet," he whispers low, 
"Even as I," and kisses her again. 

Awakened by his voice and by his kiss, 
Eve looks with eyes sleep-lidded up at him, 
And softly sighing says, "I had a dream — 
A wondrous dream; I wish it might be true." 
And then she sees the blossoms round her form, 
And cries, "It is, thank God," and reaches down 
And plucks with gentle loving carefulness 
A snow-white bud, that opens at her touch; 
Then rising to her knees she holds this out, 
As though 'twere something holy in her sight: 

-61— 



"See love," she cries again, "my dream in bloom, 
Our star of hope, the Star of Bethlehem." 

"Why sweet," Adamus says, "thou dreamest yet, 
Awake and dream no more; the night is past; 
Earth with her myriad eyes smiles up to God. 
The day has long since scaled the mountain tops, 
And every dewy pearl the morning wore 
The sun has claimed again." 

"I do not dream," 
She says, "our place of rest, dost thou not see, 
Is bedded down with white and starry flowers, 
That gleam within the shadows cool and dark, 
Like necklaces of living diamonds laid 
Upon the dusky bosom of the night. 
Seest thou elswhere a single one like these, 
Beneath the trees, along the river side, 
Upon yon hills, or in the grassy dells? 
But look, Oh look! there is my carrier dove, 
And in his bill the spray of tender green;" 
She points above her head. Adamus looks 
As from the deeps a bird comes circling down, 
And, lo, alighting where Eve's head had lain, 
It lets its burden fall, then with a coo 
Of soft delight it flutters to her breast, 
And nesting there it plumes its ruffled wings. 

"How beautiful thou art," Adamus cries, 
What makes thee so this first sad day of days, 
My Eve?" 

"I do not know," she answers him, 
Unless my face has caught it from His face." 

-62- 



"It must be that," Adamus mutters low, 

And silence falls between them for a space, 

As he looks at the picture which she makes; 

The dawn-lit splendor of her flowing hair 

Enwraps her with its aureole of flame, 

Until it seems that this can only be 

One of God's cherubs looking through a cloud 

Of golden glory, for her holy soul 

Hath stamped its holiest imprint on her face, 

And made its radiant beauty so divine, 

That all his spell-bound being stands amazed; 

And when she speaks again her very voice 

Is as the voice of cherubs worshiping: 

"Thou knowest, dear Adamus, how God comes, 

And how, unseen from out His light-wrought veil, 

He speaks to all, e'en angel peers and powers, 

If it shall so be suited to His will. 

Last night I had a vision in a dream 

So full of promise for our future lives, 

That hope had blessed it, though it were a dream; 

And in that vision this is what I saw: 

I saw a glory shining in the sky, 

That seemed to beckon me to rise and come; 

And then I seemed to stand upon my feet, 

And struggle towards it, but I strove in vain; 

My form obeyed me not, I could not rise; 

And then a voice came saying to me, 'Wait, 

Thou canst not come, so come I unto thee,' 

And, lo, the glory settled gently down, 

And stopped, Adamus, just above my head, 

And out of it the voice spake: 'Fear not, Eve, 

I bring thee tidings of exceeding joy, 

And also of a burden thou must bear, 

-63- 



But it shall be a burden that shall bless, 
For thou shalt bruise thyself against a stone, 
And thou shalt suffer sorrow for man's sins, 
But thou shalt mother Love, and He shall reign; 
Thy travail shall be great, but thy reward 
Shall be as great, for it shall be of Heaven 
For thee and thine. This after many days. 
Then shall a greater love redeem the less, 
And give thee wings to bring thy lover home. 

But every blessing hath its counterpoise, 

And e'en tomorrow's dawn shall bring thee change, 

Shall find thee shorn of power to wing thy way 

Above the clod, which thy laborious feet 

Must travel over, even to the end. 

Be of good cheer, My hand shall ever guide, 

My love protect and cherish. Mark thou this; 

When thou awakest in the morning light, 

Thou shalt behold, in confirmation full 

Of these My words, a bed of starry flowers 

Where thou now liest in thy dreaming sleep, 

And thou shalt name them Stars of Bethlehem, 

For they foretell where thou shalt be most blest.' 

And then I knew the voice of Him who spake, 
The Son's, and all my happy soul gave thanks; 
My heart did utter them; I think He heard, 
Though He was speaking to me all the while; 

'And I will send to thee thy carrier dove, 
And in its beak shall be a twig of green, 
Broken by Me from off the Tree of Life, 
And thou shalt plant it in the place thou art, 
And from this twig another tree shall grow, 

—64- 



Whose leaves and buds and blossoms shall be love. 
Evil from this same tree shall hew a cross, 
And on that cross all good shall evil bless, 
And there shall be their final consecration, 
Evil to good and both of them to God.' 

E'en as He spake the glory died away, 

And that low voice receded in the gloom, 

And then I heard, or dreaming thought I heard, 

A mighty psalm as though Heaven's walls had burst 

Before the whelming billows of its joy, 

And all earth's echoes far away and near 

Were all repeating it in one great voice: 

'Praise ye the Lord, Oh praise Him, all ye lands! 
Bless ye the Lord, O all ye peoples, bless, 
For He is God, and wonderous are His works. 
Praise and give thanks, Amen.' 

And then I thought 
A sad, sweet echo whispered, 'It is well,' 
And then I felt thy kiss and I awoke." 

She says no more, yet still her face speaks on 

As though it questioned him — what of thy thought? 

And as the silence drops its period down 

Upon the limpid music of her words, 

The droning hum of nature's little wings, 

The lapping murmur of the rivers' flow, 

The whispering sound of leaves by zephyrs stirred, 

Flushed here and there with silvery sprays of song, 

Each, in melodious numbers, utters peace, 

And all together melted, blended in 

Intone upon her spirit hymns of praise. 

-65- 



But to the spirit of the one she loves, 

Who stands beside her, buried in his thoughts, 

These hymns of praise are requiems of pain. 

His face has been averted from her own, 

And while she stands aglow with gladness there, 

He turns and so confronts her, and she sees 

And all her glory-hearted visions fly, 

And all her startled soul cries through her voice: 

"Adamus, O Adamus, what is this?" 

And then he speaks, and Eve affrighted hears. 

His voice is sad, his face is stern and set: 

"That which to thee is garnitured in light, 

To me as well is superclad in gloom, 

Is fraught with dim foreshadowing of good, 

But with dark omens full of evil things. 

I fear me life is like yon stately tree, 

Thou seest only that which deck its limbs, 

That clinging vine around it, those green leaves, 

Those opening buds, and those pink-petaled flowers, 

Its moldering heart is far beyond thy ken. 

My eyes were never idle nor my thoughts, 

While thy word-pictured vision was unrolled; 

And what I heard gave motive to my thoughts, 

And what I saw incentive to my eyes; 

And so I dread to find the laws of change 

May hold a something worse for life on earth, 

Than life in Heaven where change doth mean progression, 

And not retrocession. I will know, 

I will not stand upon the very verge 

Of supposition's precipice unwarned; 

Therefore, I pray thee, sweetheart, come with me." 



-66- 



And she obeys him clinging to his hand. 
The distance is a reed or two at most, 
And where they stop is just beside the tree, 
The vine-clad tree of which Adamus spake. 

And now he parts its parasitic leaves, 

And looks beneath with keen enquiring gaze; 

And when he speaks Eve trembles at his tones: 

"Behold this seeming monarch of the grove, 

Its sturdy trunk seems made to stand the brunt 

Of centuries of storms, to bask within 

The glow of endless summers' shining suns; 

See, round its case the vine, how fair a thing, 

And yet its roots pierce down and suck its life, 

See thou beneath! Unmerciful decay 

Hath written there disintegration — death. 

What mean these words? I dare not tell thee, yet. 

My thoughts grow horrified and sear my heart, 

As I stand here before this hideous thing. 

If what I fear be true, then is our fate 

Sadder than that which drove us here alone; 

That fear now lies a serpent in my path; 

As yet I see one only of its folds, 

And that doth make me fear the dangerous way 

Lest with chance foot I tread upon the thing, 

And it strike back with deeply venomed fang, 

And poison peace, and, more than that, our love. 

Yet evil positive doth better doubt, 

That hath imagination for a sire; 

And I pray God these thoughts of evil be 

Only the fancy of a woe-worn brain." 



-67- 



He stops his words, for suddenly his thoughts 
Take new departure. Then he turns to Eve 
And looking sadly at her, sighing says: 
"Poor child, poor child, I would I had said nay, 
I should have said it, should have forced thee back; 
Now thou art cursed to share my evil fate." 

"Call me not poor," Eve answers him, "or cursed, 
For I am rich and blest of God and thee." 

"Ah well," returns Adamus, "love is ours, 

And though the worst betide, that shall remain — ■ 

Yea, shall remain," he murmurs, "yea, until — " 

"Yea, until what?" she questions with a sob, 
That shakes her as the whirlwind shakes the flower. 

And then Adamus: "Thou wilt have the truth: 
Until we perish in the slough of time; 
If what I think be true we turn to dust, 
Turn into atoms, or to something less. 
How shall we know each other when that dust 
After long centuries works its weary way, 
And clothes again the stature of a soul? 
How shall we know each other? O my God!" 

He stands a moment as though petrified, 

And, as in Heaven, she wraps him in her arms, 

And clings to him, and as she does she sees 

Proud resolution like a flame come forth 

And seal him on his forehead; then his form, 

Which had been bowed with anguish rises up, 

And through his lips come these two words, "I will." 

-68— 



"I pray thee, love, remember," Eve's sweet voice 
Is trembling, "what it was that brought us here. 
We see not things alike, I know not why 
That should not be, we are two halves of one. 
Trust thou in Him who spake to me this night; 
Here is a pleasant home, why seek to know? 
It cannot crown with better what is best; 
There may be caverns deadly deep and dark 
Beneath a cave door-framed with light and bloom." 

"Eve," says Adamus, "what is reason for? 

The only godlike thing I have is mind; 

Wouldst quench my reason, stultify my thoughts, 

Make me a thing of slothful self-content, 

That eats and sleeps and wakes and nothing more? 

Reason sits throned within the Heavens above; 

And they who stand the nearest to that throne 

Are they who climbing to the heights of mind 

Have bound their brows with diadems of truth. 

Therefore, I say to thee once more, I will. 

My love," his voice is like a clarion's clear, 

"I go where silent meditation dwells, 

There nature may perchance hold forth a hand 

To lead suggestion to the feet of fact; 

For reason should be hermit-crowned to gain 

The best results, should seek some rock-bound cave, 

And there alone with solitude sit down; 

There introspection often finds a fact 

That bandied words may never find at all. 

Do thou await me here a little while." 

And then he turns away and leaves Eve there, 

Alone. 

-69- 



OUT OF THE DEEPS 

The waning sunset casts its pensive shade, 
Through coronals of leaf and bud and bloom, 
Upon the spot where our Adamus stands, 
As gentle evening clothes herself in gloom. 
With ceaseless energy his strong, lithe limbs 
Have covered league on league since early dawn, 
In search of something which shall rend the veil, 
That drops between him and the truth he seeks. 
So far in vain. And to his eager gaze 
No single corner of that veil is drawn, 
And only plain, blank emptiness is there, 
With dim suspicion as a drop of rain, 
That erst forbodes the coming of the storm. 

"My brain hath lost its power," at last he cries, 

"Or else this earth hath choked it up with dust. 

No other thing except the primal force 

Hath ever so defied my will to know. 

This strange, strange earth hath caught some little part 

Of Heaven's beauty, blessedness, and light, 

Of peace in joy, and restfulness in love; 

There these ascend, descent they never know, 

Here these ascend and then — look on this day, 

That now doth gloom with shadows of the night; 

Behold this calm, will it not change to storm, 

This balmy zephyr to the north-wind's breath? 

Do all things here below troop thus in pairs, 

In awful contrast, and if so, what for? 

I know that trees decay, vines, fruits, and flowers, 

For I have stepped upon their moldering forms, 

And felt them crumble underneath my feet; 

And I have seen the worm at nature's heart, 

-70- 



Building up ugliness with beauty's bloom; 
And countless things that live but to destroy. 
But what of higher lives?" 

He stops his words 
As though they had been thread, and that had snapped. 
A bird has fallen almost at his feet, 
He picks it up, its wings still fluttering, 
And as he does its glazing eyes unclose 
And look at him, and then it gives one cry, 
Arid then is still. The answer fills his hand. 

"It needs no long analysis," he cries, 
"This means eternities of groundless hope, 
For one small hope that blossoms but to fade. 
One day of life for death's unnumbered days." 
He drops the poor dead bird, it weighs a world, 
Or so it seems, for he is worn with pain. 

Impact with sudden death must horrify, 
Arid daze the mind and body and the soul; 
And he who looks upon this thing is dazed, 
Half dead with past as well as present woe; 
And now with future 'tis an over-woe; 
And then again this earth's transforming hand 
Is changing him, the angel, to the clod. 

Not even our first father could bear up 
Beneath this last, most direful stroke of all. 
He totters dizzily and murmurs low: 
"Then she must die, my life, my love and I." 
A sudden bird-song trills down on his heart, 
He lifts his head and so beholds the scene, 
Its twilight skies, its groves, its water's sheen, 
And lifting up his voice he cries aloud: 

-71- 



"Bow all your flower-crowned lofty heads, O trees; 
Close all your warbling throats, ye singing birds; 
Stop all your rippling music, O ye streams; 
Wipe off your blushing beauty, O ye skies, 
And lose yourselves in night, the night is near; 
For life, all life, must end at last in death." 

His failing senses muse upon this thing 

Until they form death's image in the way, 

And there it fronts him, close beside the bird; 

Tall, terrible and mighty, merciless, 

It seems to blot the sunshine from the sky, 

To stalk before him back and forth, a ghost 

Whose rotting grave-clothes cling about his bones, 

To glare at him with eyes of fiendish joy 

From empty sockets in a moldering skull, 

As though a devil lurked there and looked through, 

And muttered through its lipless, tongueless jaws: 

"Behold thy master, aye, thy master, Death/' 

The monster seems to grow and tower on high; 

To clasp him round with both its loathsome arms, 

And with its long, dank fingers tear apart 

His breast, and pierce his heart, and let his blood 

Run on the ground in one great steaming flood. 

"Too much," he cries, "too much, O God, no more!" 
As with one long and shuddering moan of woe 
He pitches headlong prone upon the earth, 
And lies there senseless. 

Then a low voice says: 
"O Azrael, he lies at rest, go thou 
And show thou art not as he thinks thou art." 

Then bright against the darkness of the night, 
An angel form unfolds and bends above 

-72- 



Adamus, and with hands which softly touch 
The face, he smoothes away its haggard lines, 
And leaves upon it only Heaven's own peace; 
Then rising to his feet he lifts on high 
A countenance of such benignant love, 
That where a wandering star-beam touches it, 
It glows with matchless splendor as a god's. 

"Hear me," he whispers, "O thou waking soul, 
Uncrown thy fears for I am greater life, 
And not as generations yet unborn 
Shall think of me, a life destroying fiend, 
And this before man passes into dust; 
But after, as between two strains of song 
One hears the music that unites the strains, 
Then he shall know me as I am, and see 
Not him who holds all horror in his hands, 
And teareth down and trampleth under foot, 
But him who plucks the withering sprays of life 
And grafts them on to stems of nobler growth. 
Some few shall know me here as I am known, 
And call me by my name God given, peace; 
And some shall see an angel clad in light, 
And wearing hope's fulfillment like a star 
Set in the center of his diadem. 
After each troubled waking these shall sleep 
Until—" 

"My Azrael," the voice cries, "it is well, 

The dove doth seek its mate, be thou her guide, 

And whatsoe'er she asks, grant thou her prayer." 

The voice is silent, and Azrael gone; 

The moonbeams bathe the spot whereon he stood. 

—73— 



Adamus lies there shrouded in the light. 
The hours pass by, and softly breaks the day; 
The sun rides high in heaven; and twilight falls,, 
And still he lies there smiling, cold and pale. 

Is there one word as fearsome as "alone?" 
How it doth tear the bleeding heart of love, 
And on a dying life how it doth toll 
And roll a juggernaut of fears on fear. 
All day the voice of Eve hath sobbed, "alone;" 
All day the birds have sung it in the trees, 
And now the river moans it to the night, 
And night is in her heart. 

"O God," she cries, 
"Have pity, Oh have pity, where is he?" 

"What wouldst thou, woman?" and before her stands 

The angel Azrael. The night has flown, 

Not from her heart, but from before his face. 

Who art thou, Lord," she whispers, "art thou He?" 

"I am of Him," he answers, "sent by Him; 
What dost thou ask of me? Thy love is dead." 

"My love is living," she begins and stops, 

For suddenly she understands, as though 

Some voice had thundered, dead means life destroyed. 

Then turning like a flash, her face aflame, 

" 'Tis thou, base angel, thou hast done this thing, 

But I will save him though I die for him." 

"Wilt thou then give thy life?" the angel asks. 
As through a wind-torn cloud the sunlight bursts, 
So on her face a quick, glad radiance breaks; 
"My life," she answers him, "ten thousand lives, 

-74— 



Had each ten thousand more, I tell thee, yea. 
God knows, but thou, art thou that fiend of hell 
Who lives but to destroy? God sent thee? Speak!" 

"Peace, woman," cries the angel, "all my ways 
Are in His hand, and Ibut do His will." 

"His will be done," she murmurs, "but, my Lord, 
I pray thee ask of Him to grant my prayer, 
And may I see my love before I die?" 

"Follow thou me," the angel softly says, 
"Thy prayer is granted, for thy love is great. 
Thy life, as mine, is subject to His will, 
He may repay thee and not ask it all; 
He hath a purpose; thou and thine fit it." 

They find Adamus lying where he fell; 

Eve kneels beside him now, no more alone, 

For hope hath found her heart, she trusts in God. 

"I will not leave thee or forsake thee, Eve;" 

Was it an echo, or that other voice? 

Eve looks around, but she is all alone, 

Alone with love and that is all in all. 

Then slowly life and feeling come again; 

Little by little, calling through his ears 

Is Eve's sweet voice: "Come back to me, come back!" 

And on his forehead rests her soft, warm hand, 

And that seems calling to him, "Come, come back!" 

Then on his lips he feels her tender lips, 

And they caress his being crying, "Come!" 

And then his senses burst the bonds of death, 

And life comes back with one great rush of love. 

-75- 



"I will have mercy, and not sacrifice," 

Is whispered to her soul; she is content, 

Life and Adamus breathe within her arms, 

The half of his own life is all of hers, 

And half of hers she now returns to him. 

He is redeemed from death, she pays the cost; 

And every woman-child unto this day 

Pays this same cost in weakness and in tears. 

Her love was stronger than the chains of death, 

For love awoke what death had put to sleep. 

At length Adamus stands upon his feet, 

Upon his face the ennobling seal of death 

Lies like the shadow of man's future fate; 

But yet a shadow radiant with light, 

And in his eyes there dwells a soft, sweet peace, 

A chastened wonder, a supreme delight, 

As one who sees some vision beautiful. 

"I never knew," Adamus mutters low, 
"That life enfolded death for death to work 
Its God-winged way anew from stage to stage, 
From progress unto progress, till that time 
When life's perfection shall itself declare, 
There shall be no more death, my crown is won." 

And now Adamus takes Eve to his heart, 

And drinks the sweetness of her quivering mouth, 

And gently smoothes the tangles of her hair 

With reverent hand as one who holds the thing 

He touches priceless, holy, passing words, 

She, clinging round his neck, sighs out her love, 

With infinite content upon his breast, 

With tears and kisses and white clasping arms. 

—76— 



And there they stand forgetful of all else, 

Save love alone beneath the moon-lit heavens, 

Beneath the white-eyed stars, upon the earth, 

Yet soaring on the lifting wings of love 

Above the stars, the moonlight, and the night. 

And when at last once more they know themselves, 

They stand as two lost spirits would have stood, 

Had these been snatched from Hell and fronted Heaven; 

Around them both a halo seems to shine 

As though their souls had bathed themselves in bliss. 

And then Adamus speaks: "I have to tell 

A wonder-tale of love unspeakable, 

Of sacrifice divine, whose blood shall win 

All glory's dower. But sweet, the night is here, 

And this day's stress is far beyond thy strength; 

We will lie down and rest until the dawn, 

And when the morning hath thrown wide its gates j. 

We will to yonder mountain top repair. 

The whole of earth's creation is as naught, 

The vast expanses of the worlds too small 

To hold the echo of the truths I know, 

But on yon summit we shall be a grain 

Above dead level and so nearer God. 

To rise to that which is the best in reach 

Is man's one chance accepted or refused. 

One's best, if little, is as kingly dight, 

As e'er another's greater best can be." 

And ending thus, he turns away with Eve, 
And soon their two tall forms are lost in night; 
But God is in the darkness and the light, 
And where He is is safety, rest and peace. 



-77- 



Then softly, sweet, comes singing through the air, 
A choir of voices tuned for souls, not ears: 

"Love is the corner stone of all, 

Springs from the heart of God alone; 

Listen whenever its voice shall call, 
For all thy sorrows shall love atone." 



The morrow's morning finds them on the mount; 

Below them and around them Eden lies 

Clad in green velvet like a very queen; 

The lakes are diamonds glittering in the sun; 

The rivers strings and rosaries of pearls; 

Indeed a queen with all her jewels on; 

And these two beings are her brightest gems, 

Aglow with life are they, Eve's angel face 

Is like an open rose, it shows her heart, 

And his is like a pool, a deep, still pool 

That mirrors things without, not things within. 

" 'Tis good to live," Adamus says at last, 
"And better still to know that love can save, 
And best to know what I know now of love. 
I thank thee, fate," it seems a hymn of praise, 
His voice is so melodious and so deep, 
His words so full, "that my soul's tiny cup, 
Hath been held under wisdom's fountain head, 
And borne the pressure of its mighty stream, 
And was not broken like an egg-shell there. 
The truths of God are mine, and I still live." 

He stands a moment without other word, 
Then: "I will tell thee, Eve, the promised tale. 

-78- 



When first I fell, sweetheart, down-borne of death, 

And from this body's hold my soul escaped, 

It shot straight upward upon eager wings 

Of power and swiftness, aye, so swift indeed 

They seemed as winged thoughts that knew their goals, 

For in one heart-beat I had cloven deeps 

Of light and darkness, limitless almost; 

Through voids and silences, through thundering space 

Where old dead worlds crashed hurtling into worlds, 

And yawning chaos swallowed them again; 

Still up, still on, until at last from far 

A soft and sudden splendor wrapped me round; 

It showered splendor till it drenched my soul; 

So terrible those bright effulgent rays, 

That were ten thousand thousand glowing suns 

Melted to one immense and flaming globe, 

Its light were as the darkness where it was. 

And then to me a something seemed to say, 

A soundless utterance: "Look thou, and behold 

The hidden mystery of thy life is here.' 

I looked, how long I know not, and I saw — 

I saw the future as one sees the past, 

I lived the future as it were to-day. 

And then I saw how these, the three, are one, 

The present standing by the throne of God 

And building up the future on the past." 

He stops the flowing wonder of his words, 
And turns to Eve with doubt upon his face, 
And thus continues: "Sweetheart, thou art weak, 
Not strong enough to bear great joy, I fear." 

"Fear not," she says, "else I had died last night." 

-79- 



"Thy heart is thy protection," he replies, 
His voice is trembling, "how can I repay?" 

"Thou canst not, love," she answers, "I am paid." 

As he goes on to tell what more befell, 
To joy his soul or trouble it with pain, 
Eve leans against him fearful yet entranced. 
Her eyes are mirrors that reflect his words, 
And more, they seem to see beneath the lines, 
To find a greater joy than he hath told, 
A sadder sorrow, or a stranger thing. 

When he begins again his voice is low 
As that of one just wakened from a dream, 
But soons regains its resonance and force. 

"The rest I have to tell," Adamus says, 

"Is yet more wonderful than I have told. 

But first look round thee, Eve, and let thine eyes 

Like some high poised eagle's circle o'er 

The near and far, from bound to bound." 

And Eve, obeying, looks and smiling says: 
"I see afar huge, rock-reared mountain peaks, 
Like sentinels in one great cordon placed, 
That stand at guard, and cross forbidding spears; 
And now I see great clouds hang over them, 
Through which the forked lightnings flash and flame, 
But in between, is as our God had dropped 
Heaven's paradise to earth and on it laid 
Blest hands of benediction." Then she turns 
And nestles in his arms, and softly says: 
"And best of all, upon its mountain top 
His love and mercy give us life and love." 

-80- 



"Thine eyes have seen, thy words have told the truth,' 

Adamus says, "for yonder mountains stand 

Against the world and bar its ingress here; 

For on this sphere is other race than that 

From which the starting point shall lie in us. 

Through untold centuries earth within her womb 

Hath moved in constant and increasing force, 

Until a race of beings hath sprung forth 

Evolved from out the earth by vital laws, 

Which find their exegesis in the man. 

This race hath multiplied upon the earth, 

And springing from the brute do brutish deeds, 

And not acquaint of wisdom go astray 

In ways of wickedness that lead to death; 

Not that which reincarnates life again, 

But death which never resurrects its dust. 

Our God hath pitied these, and for their sake 
Was I led blindfold through the door of sin. 
I bless the One who chose me from the rest 
To bear this burden, for it typifies 
The Burden-bearer, He who hath no sin. 
Wonder not, Eve, my tale will tell thee all; 
Sin came and found in me a willing slave, 
I strove to drink from untouched wells of life, 
Reached too far over and fell headlong down; 
I fell and falling struck the bottom rock, 
But from that basic rock shall spring aloft 
A towering temple massive, grand, and high; 
For on that rock is laid redemption's plan. 
Evil hath opened wide good's gates of pearl, 
And made that plan both possible and sure. 



-81- 



But, Eve, think not no future ill is ours, 

Both thou and I shall know the weight of sin, 

And know its natural sequence — suffering. 

Daughters and sons shall both be born to us, 

And one of these, our best beloved son, 

Shall found the race from which shall spring that man, 

Who loving good outlives the wrath of God, 

Whose hand shall save him, aye, and all his house. 

For from this very Eden sin shall go, 

Driven of God beyond yon girdling walls, 

And it shall grow and spread until its mass 

Uplifts so high it brings the deluge down, 

And fills the earth with dead men, like the leaves 

That carpet yonder forest aisles with death. 

These few, our sole descendants, who outlive 

The raining horror of those days of doom 

Shall multiply again upon the land, 

And from the earth-evolved, a remnant left, 

To fit God's purpose, shall they take them wives, 

And so unite the spirit and the flesh, 

That He, who is to come, shall be of both, 

And show to man how humble is his God. 

Now He is merciful beyond compare, 

He wills that none on earth should die the death; 

Even the brute hath soul, however small, 

It yet hath something in it of desert. 

Weep not, my Eve, thou dost but waste thy tears, 
(She has been crying softly) weep no more; 
What I have now to tell thee blooms with joy. 
What will the deluge, thinkest thou, leave dead? 
Not soul, but body stained with sin and shame. 
The earth may perish but the soul shall live 

-82- 



Immortal, indestructible, divine. 

'Thy hand offend thee, cut it off,' saith Love; 

'Thine eye offends thee, pluck it out,' he saith; 

'Wilt thou not do it for thyself, I will.' 

So will the deluge cut off flesh from soul, 

And leave the soul to fledge its wings once more, 

And still once more, again and yet again, 

Through many lives until its wings grow strong, 

And like the eagle-soul can face the sun, 

And bathe its full-grown plumage in the Heavens. 

Should any fail, then He who is to come 
Shall hold him in the hollow of His hand, 
And lift him up to where his sins shall fall 
Like thy great tears, sweet love, into the dust, 
And like thy fallen tears be lost to sight. 

The living essence of the soul shall pass 

Through piled gradations up to God; 

And then that perfect day shall dawn, 

When He, the concrete and collected mass 

Of individual being's highest good, 

Shall sit upon His throne and say, ' 'Tis done.' 

And now I say to thee concluding words, 
In which Love lays his capstone on them all, 
And so completes this monumental tale," 
And as he speaks his stature seems to grow, 
His face to shine as though some inner force, 
Some great, tumultuous, overwhelming joy, 
Had turned him to a cherubim on earrh; 
So proud his mien he seems to flame with power: 

"Hearken," he cries, "no other soul save thine 
Will ever hear so blest a tale as this, 

-83- 



Till forty cycling centuries pass away, 
And life's Ideal-manhood stands revealed; 
Some part of this, however, thou dost know, 
Thy vision prophesied, but I was blind; 
Vaunt not of wisdom, only God is wise. 

My precious Eve, thy destiny is great, 

And I, thank Him, with thee have part therein. 

We are the points of issue whence shall spring 

Life's leaders, princes, potentates, and powers, 

The hierarchs of earth, from out whose loins, 

When strikes the chrismal hour, Redemption comes. 

Then there shall blaze a glory in the sky, 

Pinned with a star upon the brow of night, 

Whose holy light shall point to where beneath 

In Bethlehem a baby lies asleep. 

A little child, but earth's most precious gem, 

The gem of all the jewels in the crown 

That Love can place upon the head of fate. 

And He shall live and thrive though all hell's host 

Opposed, and grow to manhood guiltless, pure. 

Then He shall teach as men were never taught, 
And open up the heart of good in God; 
And live His every word that they may know, 
And that should'be enough; but, lo, He dies 
That they may live, He sheds His very blood, 
But every drop shall glorify His name, 
Shall consecrate His memory evermore, 
And save life's soul for which He suffers death. 

And He shall hold God's chalice in His hand, 
Filled to the brim with wine of heart and soul, 
And though attenuating ages spill 

—84- 



And waste the wine, the lees within the cup 
Shall furnish nectar for all lips that thirst. 

And He shall come to earth in lowly guise, 
Uncrowned, unsceptered, save of love alone, 
And found an empire for the sons of men, 
Here on this earth like that of His in Heaven. 
He shall be called the Christ, the Wonderful, 
And He shall be the Man alone of men 
Within whose mortal frame shall dwell all strength, 
All weakness, justice, mercy, meekness, power. 
The precious truths which He shall tell to man 
Shall ring out on the sorrows of the soul 
Their keynote bells of happiness and peace." 

As though Adamus saw some vision lift 
And form upon the bending blue above, 
He lowers his voice and murmurs softly, "Yea, 
Yea, God, I know it truly, Thou art Love, 
For Love shall be Thy heart in human form." 

Then silence falls between them, and they lift 
Adoring eyes as though their hearts knelt down 
Before the throne and uttered blessings there. 

But soon they stir, their looks are full of speech; 

Adamus first: "And that is all, my Eve, 

It is forbidden that I tell thee more; 

If I were now to speak yon woods have ears; 

This air doth clasp and hold a thought expressed, 

That ages after some one soul shall feel, 

And it would bubble upward to his lips, 

As though it were an offspring of his brain, 

And not an inspiration from the past. 

-85- 



Nature is one vast storehouse which receives 

And forwards each and all impressions given 

Along the lines, which fine as spiders' webs, 

Are yet as indestructible as soul. 

No thread is left to chance to gather up 

From out this infinite and countless skein; 

Each touches some predestined mortal's brain 

By predeterminate and wise intent, 

And flashes instant knowledge to his soul. 

And all these threads are held within the grasp 

Of that great central fountain-head of thought, 

From which the smallest ideas in our brains 

Have both their starting point and vital force; 

The medium, however, will be gross 

As long as soul is flesh-bound to the earth, 

And will assoil all purity of thought, 

And most God's own which passes mortal lips 

That strive to tell His thought in human speech; 

But even that will lift man step by step, 

Up to the level of the truth with Him, 

Who is embodied wisdom and all truth. 

Would we could be with Thee, once more," he prays, 
"My love and I, but that is vain to ask." 

"Our God is omnipresent," Eve returns, 

"For He is with us when we are alone, 

And if our hearts are pure His Heaven is here. " 

"Yes, Heaven is here," he murmurs, "thou art here, 
Where love is left there its best good remains. 
Patience and perseverance, love and trust, 
Shall be our watchwords till the end of time. 



Kiss me, my Eve, the daylight fades again, 
And twilight draws the curtain of our bed. 
Bless thee, my love, thou soul of my own soul, 
I do commend thee to the arms of peace. 
We will unto our place of rest return, 
And sleep upon the promises of God." 

He speaks no more, and passing down the mount 
Beneath embowering trees, whose leaf-clad arms 
Seem beckoning them to rest within their shade, 
Across green, gleaming meadows ripe with bloom, 
In shadow and in sunlight passing on, 
They go to play their own allotted part, 
And so fulfill the destiny of man. 



Ages have flown; not e'en their dust remains; 
The graves they slept in are forgotten, lost. 
They died to life, and yet they live again; 
They seek each other, though unknowingly, 
And never seek in vain. They mount by death 
Upon its lifting ladder rung by rung, 
Where soul-development can bring each life 
Nearer and nearer to the final good. 
The perfect and the true and love still lives, 
Their succoring angel in a world of woe: 

For love is the corner stone of all, 
Springs from the heart of God alone; 

Listen whenever its voice shall call, 
For all thy sorrows shall love atone. 



-87- 



The Sleeper sighs and moans; the vision lays 
Sepulchral memory upon his heart; 
Funereal dirges sob within his soul; 
His graves re-dig themselves again; he fills 
Them up and mourns the loved, the beautiful, 
The lost. A tremor shakes the Sleeper's form, 
He sees the face of Abel cold in death; 
The brow of Cain with murder's signet there, 
And then her face as white as Abel's own, 
As dead upon his breast. Tears well between 
His tight shut eyelids, and then trickle down 
His cheeks and wet his pillow. 

"O my Eve," 
Comes groaning through his lips, "my poor dead love." 

Dream on, dream on, O Sleeper, thou wilt find 
Earth hath no graves except for its own earth; 
For what it hath of Heaven earth hath no tombs. 



IN DAYS OF DOOM 

Two thousand years of time and tide have passed 
Since God let down to earth one part of Heaven, 
And called it Eden, and, because of sin, 
Withdrew His gift and left of it to life 
Only its name for words to juggle with. 

Two thousand years of time and tide have passed 
Since Eve and Adam laid their burdens down, 
And what of them was earthly passed away; 



And now their souls re-fleshed again of change 

Step out upoirthe roadway of the years, 

To see a lesser Eden sin-despoiled; 

To be sent forth from even that by sin; 

To live,, to love, to suffer, and to pass, 

But as before their Eden with them goes; 

And love, their Eden, makes the desert bloom. 



The noonday sun pours down its amber floods 
On hill and valley, river, rill, and rock. 
The heat is overpowering; not one breath 
Of air is moving. Over all the scene 
Is silence, save where fretful birds complain 
Unto each other, and some restless beast 
Stretches itself and growls within its lair. 
And here are trees, and underneath them shade, 
The cool lap, lap of waters sounding near; 
But just beyond this lies a desert waste, 
Arid and waterless, Avhere nothing lives. 
The winds shrink from it as a thing accursed; 
The eagle shrieks at it as he goes o'er, 
And tears the sodden air with fleeing wings; 
One belial-bird alone doth dare the waste, 
And there he floats, the vulture scavenger, 
On sluggish pinions in the sky above, 
The only thing on which the eye can rest, 
That tells of something living twixt two deaths. 

Now far away a tiny speck is seen, 

A small black moving speck upon the waste; 

It comes his way, and so the vulture waits. 

"Ha, ha!" he laughs, "more bones to bleach! ha! ha!" 



An hour resolves the speck into a man, 
A man most dead upon a dying horse; 
And just beneath the vulture with a scream 
Of almost human agony, the horse 
Falls on the sand and gasps its life away. 

"Poor brute," his master mutters through parched lips, 

"Thou didst deserve a better fate than this, 

And so did I. My father sent me forth 

And with his blessing. Now God curseth me 

Because I failed, and turned no hearts to Him. 

My mother's people whom I came to save 

Did flout my words, my slaves deserted me, 

But 'fore they went, they stoned me, me, their lord, 

And left these festering wounds to mouth my shame; 

Yet death, methinks, kept tally of my wounds, 

They cannot boast, 1 live yet they are dead, 

As I shall be erelong, and find a grave 

Upon these dragon sands. O God, to die 

In youth's first flush, in manhood's earliest prime; 

To leave the wine untasted in the cup. 

What was I born for? For a fate like this, 

A burning sacrifice to Heaven and earth?" 

He looks aloft, his brain is mad with pain: 
"Yon bestial bird leaves nothing but dry bones; 
When someone sees them they will have no voice, 
They will not shout behind him, 'Noah's son, Shem.'" 

He staggers on his feet. The vulture's eyes 
Gleam like a tiger's; he beholds his prey. 
At last he falls face downward on the sands, 
And overhead the vulture calls his mates; 
The man is still alive, and so the ghouls 
Feast on the dead and let the living lie. 

^C 5jC JjC JjS 

-90- 



The night is drawing on. The dewy breeze, 
Fresh from the water's bosom, cools the vale, 
And gently stirs the hangings of a tent, 
And filtering inward fans a maiden's cheek. 
The waking birds are twittering in the trees; 
The flower-fed bees are humming in their holes; 
The hour is full of voices, sweet and shrill; 
Then from a tree-bough just above the tent, 
A nightingale breaks forth into a song; 
And song doth ever beauty's heart awake; 
The sleeper hears it. Through her drowsy ears 
It sings into a heart that answers back, 
Through ripe red lips, with trills and quaverings, 
That shame the bird until its song is still. 

"Did I not do that well, my Adah, say?" 
She asks her one companion in the tent, 
A tall, dark slave. 

And Adah answers, "Well, 
No bird can sing as thou, my beautiful." 

"Tush, tush," her mistress cries, "thou spoilest me; 

But haste, each hour may hold a life or death. 

Go bid Archippus bring the horses forth; 

The desert lies before us. I have heard 

Tales of that death-land, and the nights are short; 

We must fare far before the morning-watch." 



A sinuous serpent crawls across the waste, 
With shining scales of shields and brazen spears. 
'Tis almost midnight, but its path is lit 
By Heaven's multitude of lantern-stars, 
That seem held lower down, as though to see 

-91- 



The royal twain who lead the serpent on. 
They seem but one, the maiden and her horse; 
His coat is white as is the robe she wears, 
But he is red-blood hearted, and a thing 
As fierce and fireful as a tiger's dam; 
But, though he shows his teeth and frets his rein, 
He doth obey her slightest touch and word. 
His limbs are quivering with life and power. 

No brush can paint his rider; once before 

I strove to paint a goddess, let those words 

Picture this other, who is Mizpah called. 

If memory serves thee, reader, take thou Eve, 

And seat her on this horse. Two thousand years 

Will, then, as one day be, which saith, "good night," 

And then, "good morrow, sir." 

An hour goes by; ■ 
The maiden turns and beckons, and the man, 
Archippus, seeks her side. 

"1 come," he says, 
And bends until his jet locks sweep the mane 
Of his black horse, "What, mistress, is thy will?" 

"I wished to tell thee that I think I see 

Some thing that moves and, therefore, must have life. 

A brute, perchance, or man more brutish still, 

In there, between us and yon tardy moon, 

Which like a lie-a-bed doth now arise. 

Thy hand is mighty, as my need hath found, 

Ride thou with me, Adonah's spirit flames, 

He is not used to mourn along like this, 

And, if the truth be told, no more am I. 

-92- 



Thou art not tied unto yon funeral train, 

And so, thou sluggard, let thy charger out; 

We race with him, my beauty, do thy best. 

White 'gainst the black! Sweetheart, Adonah, go!" 

Like arrow drawn to head the white horse leaps 

Into the air, and when his forefeet strike 

The earth again he leads by one full length. 

Another rider had unseated been, 

But as for this one, once upon his back 

No thing could tear her from it, save her will. 

And he had been her cradle and her joy, 

And so she knew him as she knew herself. 

"Splendid!" Archippus mutters in his beard, 

Two lengths she gains — ten — twenty — she has won 

Ere yet the great black charger's sturdy limbs 

Have settled to their stride. With one last laugh 

Of mockery, she turns to look ahead; 

Too late, another higher spring in air 

The white horse makes, her instant eyes flash down 

Upon a something lying in the way, 

And with a ringing hold unto the horse, 

She throws her weight upon the straining reins, 

And at the word, as though her voice had power 

To stop him, as the rock the arrow's flight, 

He slides upon his haunches thrice his length, 

And she, ere yet the white is on his feet, 

Is bending over what she deems is death. 

She rises as Archippus gains her side: 

"It is a man, and young, methinks," she says, 

"I fear me he is dead, see thou to it." • 

The youth is lying senseless on his face; 
Archippus turns him over, "Gods!" he says, 

-93- 



" 'Tis pity that he died, if he be dead. 
He hath a lordly seeming, and, but wait, 
His heart is living yet. I would ride back, 
If that could be thy will, and haste them on, 
He needeth food and water." 

"Go," she cries, 
"Take thou Adonah, I will stay and watch." 

"Who is it? who?" she murmurs to herself 

When left alone. Have I not seen that face? 

Poor youth, poor youth, and he is almost dead. 

So handsome, aye, indeed, of lordly mien. 

Who is he like?" Then recollection comes 

As comes the sudden flood, "My mother's God, 

He hath the very features of my dream; 

But smoother, fresher, like Noah's face grown young. 

Could I but see his eyes I might be sure, 

But he may never open them again. 

How still he lies, I pray he may not die. 

Why come they not, the moles, he needeth care. 

Had I but known a man like this, or youth — " 

But now a blushing thought breaks off her voice, 

She turns from him, her face is like a rose, 

Nay, like a lily that the sun hath kissed. 

She goes some little distance from his side, 

Thinking" sad thoughts and glad, and dreaming dreams; 

And ere she knows it, lo, around her throng 

Her willing slaves; and Shem is taken up 

With care and tenderness, and laid upon 

A litter made of ebony and brass; 

And bedded in with skins as soft as down; 

And by the morning Shem doth know himself, 

-94- 



Doth feel himself alive, and rides beside 
The leader and the mistress of the train. 

At last both man and horse worn out and weak 

With toil of travel, reach their journey's end. 

The patriarch is absent, for the Voice 

Hath spoken saying, "Go thou, as thou wilt, 

I have repented me that I made man; 

My spirit shall not always strive with him, 

I will destroy him from the face of earth. 

Go thou and tell him, though he will not hear," 

And Noah had gone and found it even so, 

And now was home returning sore at heart. 

The wife of Noah gives welcome to the maid, 
And more than welcome, when she knows the tale, 
That but for her, the maid, her son had died. 
And many times the mother watches them, 
And smiles to see them dallying with love, 
For she has known, and still knows what it is; 
How it doth steal upon one, how it flings 
A wreath of flowers about entwining lives; 
And when one thinks to tear the wreath away, 
Lo, 'tis as iron chain, but still a-bloom, 
And not with earthly, but immortal flowers. 

The sun has climbed the far horizon's verge, 
And stands in full-orbed splendor on the hills, 
When, on one morning, Mizpah from her sleep 
Awakens, parts the curtains of her tent, 
And steps into the glory of the dawn. 
A solemn hush is over all the scene; 
A hush as though all nature knew the doom 
That waited life and beauty on its breast. 

—95— 



And e'en the maiden feels it, for her face 

Takes on the shadow of a nameless dread. 

She gazes round her sighing, looks above, 

And there a strange thing happens; where the sun 

Upon the hill-tops blazes, is a form, 

Enthroned against it like a very god. 

The form from where she is majestic seems, 

And huge, a frowning god and terrible. 

Her fears make out within his hand a spear, 

Whose head doth scintillate with angry fire. 

At first she doubts the seeing of her eyes, 

And trembling shrinks with fear, and then her soul, 

Strong with the virile strength of innocence, 

Forces her feet to climb the radiant way, 

To gain the nearer view and know the worst. 

Not long is she afraid, for lo, the god 

Descends to meet her, and he leaves his throne, 

His flameful spear, and glory all behind; 

And so resolves her monster to a man, 

A nobler thing, I wot, than half the gods 

Which human fancy seats on higher thrones. 

He, when they meet, looks at her with a smile, 
"Who art thou, maiden?" says a clear, strong voice. 

"My name is Mizpah, master," she replies, 
"And thou art Noah, I've waited for thee long." 

"Knowest thou me?" he asks in much surprise. 

"Yea, good my lord, I do, but that I do 
Is far more wondrous to myself than thee. 
If 'twere not that thy loved ones were asleep 
I would not ask thee now to hear my words; 

-96- 



But yet, perchance, thou art an hungered, lord, 

And worn and wearied from thy toiling way, 

I pray thy pardon, let my story wait. 

I — ■" sudden diffidence breaks up her speech, 

And then she murmurs humbly, "pardon me, 

Command hath been my right, and now 'tis thine, 

And I obey, thou chosen of the Lord." 

"Girl, come with me," Noah says, "thy words are strange, 
And I would know thy meaning." 

Then he turns 
And goes back up the hill. She follows him. 
When they have won the height he turns again; 
"Now if thou wilt, thy tale." 

Then Mizpah thus: 
"I am descended from two lordly lines; 
My father of the line of Tubal-cain, 
My mother of that Enoch whom God took; 
And Enoch's God was hers, as hers is mine. 
And now I have to tell thee they are dead. 
My father first assayed the unknown land, 
And left us. Then my mother died to life, 
As dies the flower for want of sun and dew; 
Aye, day by day I saw her suffering soul 
Strive with its bonds; they broke, she died, alas, 
And somewhere, lord, her soul hath found his soul." 
Her voice sobs down, then to Noah's asking gaze 
She answers, "No, I do not know, I feel; 
But ere she died she made me know her God, 
The only one, Creator of all things. 

She told me of the Eden and the fall, 

She bade me pray to Him and ask His grace. 

—97— 



She prayed for me that He might keep my ways; 
And lo, her prayers are answered. For one night- 
'Twas in the middle watch before the dawn — 
Her spirit came and woke me from my sleep, 
And said to me: 'Let not thy soul know fear,' 
And smiled at me, and kissed me on the lips, 
And vanished; then where hers had been, thy face 
Appeared, and from thy lips a voice spake thus — 
'Thy home is here no more, but far away; 
Noah speaks not of himself, but I through him. 
Seek thou the man called Noah, and he will know. 
Thy life is in his hand, all else shall die, 
Save those who are of him, and his; and mark, 
(And now I heard my mother's voice again) 
When thou awakest in the morning light, 
Thou shalt behold a brand upon thy breast, 
The outlines of a dove, and in its beak 
Shall seem an olive leaf.' " 

She bares her breast,, 
"Behold the sign, the dove and olive leaf." 

And Noah beholds it even as she says, 

And while he does it fades, and then is gone, 

And they stand looking at each other dumb. 

"Truly," Noah humbly whispers to himself, 
"The ways of God are past our finding out. 
Blessed be God who hath the will and power 
To save the soul; my power is less than naught." 

Then long these two hold converse in this place. 
Little by little from reluctant lips 
Noah draws the story of his son's dire need, 
The life upon the desert, and he reads 



Between the lines, for when she speaks Shem's name, 

A softening in the timbre of her voice, 

Gives him to know a tale her words ne'er tell. 

And when Noah prays ere they go down the hill, 

"O God. Almighty, wondrous are Thy ways; 

Thy hand doth fill the wine-cup of Thy will, 

And bring from far and near the drop of life, 

And blend them into one; give her Thy love, 

And what her heart desires, this child of Thine 

Whom thou hast stooped to raise." Mizpah knows not 

Noah means, "give her my son." 

And time goes on and strews its hours and days 
Behind it; hours of hope, and hours of love, 
And days of soft content; and then one day, 
When love's twin-seeming souls are joined in one, 
When Shem and Mizpah face their fate together; 
That, too, is left behind, but leaves a mark, 
A shining blazon on the path time trod. 

Was ever joy on earth untouched of pain? 
True joy, pure joy, the holy joy of love, 
Doth lift them both to Heaven for one small space, 
(How small it seemed, but love knows naught of time) 
Then memory brings them down again to earth; 
Brings Shem to face a sorrow known of, feared, 
And Mizpah down to front that horrent hour, 
The parting hour which tears her from her friends, 
Her childhood's friends, companions of her youth; 
For God hath spoken through the lips of Noah, 
"Go ye into the ark, the doom draws nigh," 
And she has parted from them, every one, 
Although they begged her, some on knees, to stay. 
; -99- 



Their prayers had shaken her, and she had looked 
At Noah with all their prayers in one within 
Her eyes, his eyes refused, and she had wept; 
And now they all are gone. 

"Alas, alas," 
She cries, " 'twere not for love, I too had gone. 
O cruel love, thou tearest me in twain." 

"O bounteous love," Shem whispers in her ear, 
"That giveth me the healing of thy wounds." 

They are within the ark, eight souls in all, 

Noah and his wife, his three sons and their wives. 

"O God," cries Mizpah, "small Thy mercy seems, 
That saves the few, and leaves a world to die!" 

"O daughter," says the patriarch, "know this, 
The will of God doth turn the wine-press down, 
That it may fill a fuller cup of life, 
With richer wine. Trust thou in Him, my child." 

Upon a low, flat hill-top stands the ark, 
Completed after many toiling days. 
And as Noah ends his words, the great doors close, 
For God hath shut them in. 

Around, beneath, 
Both far and near, are villages and towns; 
A multitude stand staring at the ark 
With scorn upon their lips, and in their hearts; 
But not for long; ere yet the laughter ends, 
Ere yet the echo of the last loud taunt 
Has died upon the air, a dun, dense mist 
Hides ark and sky and sun from sense and sight, 

—100- 



And swallows all the scene; the day is dead, 

It is as though the sun was snatched from heaven, 

And smothered in infinitudes of space, 

So sudden falls the blackness. Take black night, 

Aye, take ten thousand without moon or star, 

And let them be as one, yet not enough, 

For that were day to this; then is this split 

From utmost verge to verge where sheets of flame, 

Like blood-red sword-blades, hew it through and through, 

Which, while the eye beholds, pour on the ear 

A hell of thunders, that doth beat life down, 

And crash upon it, shaking earth and heaven. 

Then silence, dead, more awful than the voice 

Of twice ten thousand thunders, falls upon 

The earth, and then the waters loosed above 

The broken deeps below cast up on high, 

Rush down in one vast volume, scourge the vales; 

Tear up the rocks and hurl them on before; 

And with one mighty roar submerge the hills. 

Then as a father lifts with careful hand 

From out some swirling vortex raging round 

His only son, and lays him on his heart, 

So, even so, the ark uplifted is, 

And lies upon the bosom of that sea, 

That seething, boiling sea of Heaven's great wrath, 

As though upon the father-heart of God, 

As calmly there, as safely there, at peace. 

God shut them in. He knows the human heart; 
He formed its limitations; He is life 
To those who love Him, death to those who hate; 
For had they seen, these few within the ark, 
That baleful besom of destruction burst 

—101— 



Upon all living things, on man and beast, 
And scatter them abroad, and choke them down, 
And swallow them, and belch them up again, 
Till naught remained that had one semblance left 
Of human, or of brute, they had shed tears 
Of blood and agony, and they had died. 

God shut them in. They saw not, praised be God. 
They saw not, but they felt, their after years 
Bore witness to how much, with threads of gray 
Among the gold and brown; and on Noah's head, 
When he stepped forth at last on Ararat, 
Into the light of day, there lay the seal 
Of feeling, white as snow. 

The doom had passed. 
And so we leave them. All the world doth know 
The blessing that those chosen few brought forth. 
How once again the earth was filled with life, 
Which doth behold God's promise in the sky, 
That He no more will deluge earth with death. 

And Shem and Mizpah? From this twain did spring 

A greater promise than the bow of God, 

Which only gave its covenant to life, 

But God, through them, doth give it to the soul, 

Soul past, soul present, soul as yet unborn. 

Its name is Christ, whose bow is in the sky 

Above God's throne for all eternity. 



One hour, at most, has passed since Caius' dream 
Rolled back the curtain of the centuries, 
And said unto his soul, "Behold once more 

—102— 



The case of flesh, where thou didst live, and love, 
And joy, and sorrow, and work out God's will." 

One thousand years between those days of doom, 
And these which join again incarnate souls. 
One thousand years within one dream-swung hour, 
Since Shem and Mizpah, led by guiding hands, 
Met at the second mile-post by the road 
On which the destinies had marked — stop here! 
And now another station for their souls 
Appears upon the borderland of dreams. 

M 
THE SHADOW OF THE PYRAMIDS 

The clock upon the mantle in the room, 

Where Caius lies entranced and motionless, 

Rings out with chiming bells the midnight hour; 

That grewsome hour, which sometimes seems to tear 

The veil from human vision, and unloose 

The bonds of silence, and the doors of death, 

To lift the spirit from the grasp of flesh, 

And bring it near its immortalities. 

With its enchanter's wand it conjures up 

The effigies of time-forgotten pasts, 

And memory marshals them in grim array. 

Oft what we deem but dreams and fancies vague, 

Are spirit-warnings it were well to heed, 

The soul is willing, but the flesh rebels. 

And when the shadows of the night have passed, 

The light of day enthrones the lust of life, 

For sunlight and the senses are akin. 

—103— 



The chimes ring down the gamut of the hour, 

A muffled cry escapes the sleeper's lips, 

For when the last faint echo dies away, 

Dim, ghostly forms approach on noiseless feet, 

And stand around him, shades upon a shade. 

Each one is cowled and mantled in a shroud; 

And then a whisper cuts the spectral night, 

A sibilant, clear whisper, "It is time; 

The past confronts the present and these twain 

Command the future; let the scroll unroll. 

The hour hath struck; appear!" 

Then from those forms 
The cerements fall off, and every one 
Springs into life as at the word of Him 
Who said, "Come forth," and lo, an empty grave. 

Then from behind the throng, till now unseen, 
A woman comes andstands beside the bed. 
The others shrink away and give her room; 
The Sleeper stirs as though he would awake; 
The woman bends above him with a smile; 
She stretches out one hand and smooths his face, 
And every rigid line at that soft touch 
Relaxes, and his eyes one instant flash 
Wide-open recognition into hers, 
Then close again. 

A radiant glory glows 
About her, while she seems to speak to him. 
No sound the silence in the air awakes, 
But in his listening soul he hears her words, 
And there her voice is like a vesper bell 
That speaks afar across the sunset-hills, 
And through the mellowing distance calls to prayer. 

-104— 



"Adamus, love, the time seems long and drear; 
'Tis only seeming, but one little tick 
Of that great clock which stands upon the sill 
Of Heaven's infinitudes, one swing alone 
Of its great pendulum, aye, that is all. 
No power save God's can stop that mighty clock, 
But sin can set the hands back on its face; 
For when man faileth, even God is touched. 
My sins and thine have stolen time from Him, 
But fear not now, the time hath passed for fear, 
The end is near. And now, my love, awake! 
The past hath here a meaning for thy soul. 
Awake and know the truth. Behold the past." 

E'en as he hears his spirit glows with life. 
The vision changes like a leaf turned back 
That hides one page and sets another forth. 
And now his seeings broaden; clearer grow 
The throning pictures of the thronging past; 
Awakening soul bursts through its swathing bands, 
And dream and memory are but synonyms. 

Back, back, O seeking spirit, rend the veil, 
More lessons of thy visions are to come; 
Live thou thy epochs, thou dost rule a king. 

He wakes into the past and lives it o'er. 
About him are great granite walls, and halls 
Long, wide, and high that loom athwart the night. 
Here splashing fountains leaping in the light 
Of myriad sconces fretted in with gems; 
And here are sleeping slaves; and there, afar, 
Gleam bright, defiant spears; and here, more near, 
An Afric lion to a pillar • chained 

-105- 



Growls in his sleep, and shakes an angry chain; 

And here, where now he lies upon a couch 

Of carven ivory inlaid with gold, 

Great columns rise so high their capitals 

Are lost, like mountain-tops cloud-capped, in gloom. 

The room's side walls, if 'tis indeed a room, 

Are sculptured o'er with strange and uncouth forms, 

And written in with hieroglyphic signs; 

And on a tablet fronting him he reads 

In these same signs, a name and dignity, 

"Maneptah, king of Egypt," and he knows. 

His dream grows reeling into nothingness, 

And for a space his spirit-eyes grow blind. 

Once more he feels surrounded by the ghosts, 

But when again he sees, he knows them all. 

The air seems full of conscious, potent life. 

"I have been dreaming, these are living men," 
He mutters to himself, "my servants, slaves." 

And still the throng increases; still they come, 
Kings, queens, and princes, satraps, leaders, lords 
Of fame and name; they fill the throne-room full; 
It might be empty, for no sound is heard, 
Not e'en a whisper; they await his will. 

He feels a hand's soft clasp upon his arm; 
A voice he hears, "Maneptah, dost thou sleep? 
Thou hast not spoken for some little time. 
Wilt not give audience to the Hebrew, sire?" 

"No, Nada, " he replies, "dismiss them all, 
And tell the Hebrew, he is thy pet, I think, 
I have no use for liars; no more tricks, 

-106— 



And no more magic arts, or he shall die; 
But let that go, and all the rest of it; 
My brain is clouded over with a dream 
I had last night, a warning it did seem, 
And — well— that later, evil things can wait; 
I will be happy, though I am a king. 

Let's up upon the temple roof, my queen, 

Where we can breathe; the airs of flattery 

And envy fill this place, and sicken me. 

Thank Ra the day is over, come, sweet night, 

And take my queen and me within thy arms, 

For thou dost bring us love. Come, Nada, come." 



Night over Egypt, with the full faced moon 
Reigning above enthroned among the stars. 
The night is like a diamond shot with gold, 
And set upon the apex of a crown; 
It throbs with light, it pours an ocean down 
On statues, temples, palaces, and towers, 
On sphinx, and obelisk, and pyramid. 

How weak is man, how mighty is his soul; 

It lifts him up until he copies God, 

The pyramids bear witness, they are dreams, 

The spirit's loftiest dreams of earthly fame 

Solidified in stone. Victorious soul, 

Life stands before thee dumb, for thou art great. 

The pyramids may crumble into dust, 

Yet that is naught, the places where they stood 

Shall be as shrines, where mortal mind may kneel 

To those immortal minds, which gave them birth. 

—107— 



They say to weakness, gird thy loins anew; 
They say to strength, look higher for thy goal; 
They emphasize eternity to time. 

Thy Nile, O land of history and song, 

Holds in her grasp the pulses of thy life; 

She lays her lips with tender rippling sighs, 

Her cooling hands, upon thy sunburnt cheeks, 

And thou art born again, and crowned with bloom. 

Beside thee stand man's noblest works of art, 

The monumental relics of his past; 

These are the world's great rosary left here 

For life to tell its holiest prayers upon. 

Land of the ages, though thy tale of time 

O'erlaps beginning's, yet in all thy years 

Thou hast not seen a manlier man than this, 

Who is thy king and lord; thou hast not seen 

A queenlier woman than this queen of thine; 

Thou hast not known a greater love than theirs, 

Which thou hast yet to find shall conquer death; 

Thou hast not known a night more full of fate 

Than this, which smiles at them from God's own heaven 

Above, and glares at them from man's own hell 

Below; a night that writes its name in blood, 

Which still drips down upon the human heart, 

And leaves a stain. 

As yet they dread no ill; 
They are together on the temple roof; 
The king reclining on a low backed couch 
With Nada by his side, her hand in his. 
Their words have flitted round like happy birds, 
From fact to fancy, touching here and there, 

—108— 



But now like tired birds have gone to sleep, 
And thought and feeling are alone awake. 

And then the king, as though the thoughts within 

Without his own volition uttered speech, 

To Nada thus: "Yea, I did have a dream, 

And such an one I pra3^ the god of dreams 

I have in dreams no more. A night like this, 

When peace like yonder moon shone down on earth; 

When it did seem as though my soul strode up 

The silvery, shining stairways of the light, 

And rested in elysiums of love; 

And then thou earnest toward me, and thy face 

Was as thy earthly one, perchance, might be 

If it were glass, and through it shone thy soul. 

And then the form of Moses came between; 

His face was like an eagle's when he tears 

His prey in pieces, fierce with greed of spoil; 

And he was clothed in raiment red with blood, 

And in one hand he held a little child, 

And in the other was a gore-drenched sword; 

And then he dropped the child and fled away 

As though his time were short to bait the death. 

From where the child did lie a crimson stream 

Rolled down upon me, smothering me in blood; 

And then a voice cried, "Father, father! help!' 

And I awoke. It troubles me, that dream." 

Then Nada: "Was it not, my king, the threat 
Of Moses, that the priest of Amnion told, 
To kill the first born didst thou stay his feet, 
And those of all his race, from going forth? 
Thou callest him my pet, that he is not; 
I feared the might of Moses, I still fear. 

—109— 



I pray thee, good my lord, do let them go. 

He hath great power, I know not what it be, 

Whether of him or of the God he serves, 

Nor dost thou know, I do believe, full well, 

Or thou hadst killed him, else what stayed thy hand? 

If thou hadst feared, the sooner had he died, 

For fear that troubles kings is sopped with blood; 

If thou hadst thought his God a mightier one 

Than thine, then would thy will have bent to will 

Of his, and thou hadst let the slaves go free. 

I cannot read thy mind in this at all." 

"No more can I, my queen," Maneptah says, 

"He doth affront me every day he lives — 

The slave — the dog — he — Ammon! what is that?" 

A cry so fierce, so terrible, so shrill, 

Tears through the silver silence of the night, 

That both their hearts seem drawn up to their ears, 

And there to feel the cry as flesh feels blows; 

And then a nearer cry of mortal pain, 

A weeping wail of anguish and despair, 

That seems to hurl a writhing, human form 

Down on its face, and roll it to their feet. 

The king recovers first, and sternly cries, 

"Up, man, who art thou? What is this I hear?" 

The man springs up; 'tis Ammon's temple priest. 
"Blood, blood!" he shrieks; his rage hath conquered all 
His fear of forms and kings and queens and powers. 
Rage hisses through his lips, and burns his voice, 
So that at first his words are lost in groans; 
But as a man who hath been foully struck, 

—no- 



Rages with wrath and then grows passion-calm, 
So this, but still hate quivers through his speech: 

"Vengeance, O king, the murderers, they flee! 
Thy son as dead, and mine; vengeance, O king!" 

A fleeing moan floats back upon the air; 
A queenly heart is broken in that hour. 

The heart within a king has turned to stone 
When next he speaks. 

"This is no time for tears, 
For deedless rage, or moans, or broken hearts. 
Thou callest thyself priest, be thou a man 
As well, let thy heart weep when it hath time 
For tears; tell me the tale, and quickly speak!" 

"O king," the other cries with trembling voice, 

"What Mosei prophesied hath come to pass; 

The heart of Egypt mourns its first-born sons, 

Not one is left alive, the Hebrew's God 

Feasts on the dead. Fear not, I weep no more, 

The slaves have sons, and we have swords and spears; 

And they have daughters — " 

"Hearken unto me," 
Maneptah's voice is hard and cold as steel, 
"I am no Hebrew, thanks be unto Knep, 
I take no life of child, though Moses did; 
I war not upon women though tenfold 
An evil had befallen, but the men, 
There's not enough of them to glut my wrath 
Though they were as the sand upon the shore; 
But, by my son I swear that what there are, 
I will destroy from off the face of earth. 

-111- 



Go thou and gather all my chariots in, 

My captains, leaders, horsemen, all my powers, 

And let them scour the land for strong, young men, 

And those who will not with us, take and kill, 

Or banish to the desert, as ye choose, 

I've had enough of traitors. Thou hast heard, 

Obey! When all is ready tell me. Go!" 

The man is gone; Maneptah is alone. 

"Yea, go," he mutters, "I will lead them on, 

But to what end? My death and theirs no doubt. 

But what then would you, can a king draw back, 

Or any man who hath a kingly heart, 

Though he did battle 'gainst ten thousand deaths? 

I'll either die, or wipe this shame away 

That stains my reign, yea, by the gods, will I." 

Truly this man doth well deserve a crown, 
For with his will he forces back his wrath, 
His stern-set purpose to revenge his wrongs, 
And almost in one instant doth become 
The sorrowing father. Calmly he goes forth, 
With step as stately, and with mien as high 
As he, when from his father's tomb returned, 
Had gone to mount his father's throne, a king, 
And bind his brow with diadems of power. 

The mother, what of her? He finds her there 

Beside the dead. "Gone, gone in youth's young spring, 

My boy, my boy!" his heart cries to his soul. 

"My wife, my Nada, love," he says aloud, 
She hears not, or she knows not if she hears; 
Her brain is dazed with pain; he comes to her 

— 112- 



And bends above her, calling her by name. 

She lifts her face, it is as she were dead, 

White with the death-born pallor of the grave; 

Still as the moveless face she looks upon; 

And then a change, as though a mask had dropped 

Before the face he loves; is this his wife? 

Aye, who is this who springs upon her feet 

And fronts him with another face than hers? 

A seeress, prophetess. 

And then she speaks; 
The voice is not her voice: "Hear me, O king: 
Man's future ever compensates his past; 
The ways of Heaven are not the ways of earth, 
And Justice holds the balances of time. 
For thy son's death shalt thou be recompensed, 
Not here and now, but in the time to come. 
The soul within this woman shall not die; 
The ages shall reclothe it unto Him 
Whom thou hast known, and yet again shall know, 
And from that fleshly raiment shall be born 
The One who shall avenge thee of thy son, 
Shall humble them who now doth humble thee, 
And scatter them abroad. I give thee peace." 

She speaks no more, and sways upon her feet. 

The king has stood and listened in amaze; 

His nerves are tensely strung, his limbs are weak, 

He has just strength enough, no atom more, 

To take her in his arms and keep her there 

Until she wakes to life and misery. 

He holds her there it seems to him for hours; 

No soul intrudes upon them, for the hearts 

Of sycophants and courtiers and slaves, 

Princes and liegemen, stricken are as theirs. 

—113- 



At last she struggles from the king's embrace, 
And stands upon her feet; the mask has dropped; 
Her face is still as pale, but in her eyes 
Are lurid lights that glow and scintillate;^ 
A mother's wrath is slaying with a sword. 

And then she speaks, though calm, intense her words; 

"Thou goest after them, and I with thee," 

And when he would deny she cries aloud, 

"I go with thee, I go with thee, my king. 

Should I stay here my thoughts would kill my mind, 

And then my body." 

"Have thy will," he says, 
And he would then have led her from the place, 
But she cries, "No, I have not said farewell." 

"Nor I," he mutters, and he goes with her. 

They bend above the dead and mourn, and mourn, 
Not with the lips, but with their stricken hearts. 
They mourn, and mourn, and then they kiss the face, 
The cold, white lips, and draw the robe about him, 
Weeping sorely, when they leave him there, 
Life's lotus-flower of love, with death, alone. 



Another night; another scene; no moon 
Above; no stars above; no light; no love; 
Below, another deeper, darker night, 
Where mouthing fear goes muttering dire despair 
Into the trembling ears of coward slaves, 
Now penned 'twixt Migdol and the chaining sea; 
And word hath come to Pharaoh of their plight. 

—114- 



A murmur chokes the distance; then that swells 

Into one long, continuous, rattling roar 

That rolls the fear of death in mountain piles 

Upon the cowering spirits of the host, 

Which had no faith, no lasting faith in aught 

God had declared; His might they disbelieved. 

Pillars of cloud and fire had led them on, 

They knew it was not men who went before. 

We leave them; though they lived, 'twas undeserved. 

Maneptah comes, and Nada; do they fear? 
Ask of the rocks if they do fear the sea; 
Ask of the tempest if it fears the cloud; 
And what these answer doth the measure take 
Of their two royal and unfettered souls. 

"Hark!" Nada says, -'dost hear the wash of waves? 
The vengeance waiteth; sound thy battle cry, 
And let it thunder on, that they may die 
In heart and spirit ere they die the death." 

'•Death to the Hebrews!" cries the king's strong voice, 
"Egypt and vengeance! let the clarions sound." 

And Egypt's gathered might with one great voice 
Repeats the cry; it scales the midnight vault, 
And echoes like the crash of thunder peals; 
It shakes the earth. 

Maneptah laughs aloud, 
And cries again, "Jehovah is no God, 
Osiris rules in Heaven and earth! On! on! 
In his name, on! the sea doth bar their road 
And weld their shackles to our chariot wheels. 
On, for our vengeance, on!" 

—115- 



"Maneptah, hold," 
Then Nada cries, "hold, hold! Beware the sea! 
Its parted waves stand like gigantic walls, 
And through them pass the Hebrews, go not there!" 

He smiles into the eyes that question him, 
Then lifts his stately head and makes reply, 
"Where mortal man can tread, there, also, I; 
But thou turn back and leave me to the chance. 
'Tis as the gods decree, Osiris rules, 
I conquer them or death shall conquer me." 

"Then I go with thee," tenderly she says, 
"What is my life, if thou art gone from me?" 

"Tis well," he says, "thy love is very sweet; 

I love thee with my soul, and if we die, 

Why better so together than apart. 

I've borne so much that I can bear no more, 

Will bear no more, from this foul scum of earth. 

We well befit each other, thou and I. 

On! on!" he cries. "They flee! on, Egypt, on!" 

And they go on, yea, down into a grave; 
Down in between those waiting walls of doom; 
Down till not one, not e'en one straggling slave 
Remains behind. 

The night grows blacker yet, 
If that could be, and hark, upon the air 
The sound of clashing shields, the roar of waves, 
The crash of chariots upon chariots hurled, 
The wail of thousands in death throes of pain, 
The choked down sob, the shriek, the gurgling groan, 
The wreck of mighty multitudes. And then, 

—116- 



A silence deep and dun with death; and then, 
Upon the utter blackness of the night 
Two clasping hands stand out in full relief; 
A solemn burst of music lifts and falls 
And fades away into that awful calm; 
Then from the deeper dark another hand, 
A mighty hand, comes reaching from above, 
And folds the other two within its grasp; 
And now the three hands are as only one, 
And lo, that one is changed into a star, 
That blazes in the center of a cross. 

And now, two forms alone are left alive, 

Two faces only, and these stand out clear, 

Like pure white cameos cut on ebony, 

Against the background of the sable gloom; 

A halo shines about them from the light 

Shed downward from the fading shadowy cross. 

One tall, majestic, calm, whose eagle-gaze 

Quails not one atom in the face of death; 

The other dainty, beautiful, a dream 

Of womanhood, with eyes like stars, 

That look at death as dauntlessly as his. 

Their arms are round each other, and they seem 

As full of life and gladness as do they 

Who stand before the altar to be wed. 

And as the waves engulf them with their might, 
He points to where the emblem shines on high, 
And cries in stern defiance, "Three in one, 
Thy God, O Moses, and my own, shall pass, 
For One shall be who holds them in His hand." 

Then with one sullen roar the heaving sea 
Blots them from sight in its eternity. 

—117- 



Then like a dream the night of death hath flown; 
And morning breaks, and with it loud and clear 
A glad refrain of victory and praise; 
•'How are the mighty fallen in their pride, 
The horse and he who rides are overthrown." 



From Caius' lips a sigh, a sob, a groan. 
He murmurs tenderly, "My Nada, love," 
Then on his ear a low, sweet whisper thrills; 
A softened splendor filters through the gloom; 
A soothing voice to Caius' spirit speaks: 

"Mourn not the issue, time hath graved the why 
In deep cut characters upon thy soul. 
Rest in His promise, God can never lie, 
Love is immortal and can never die." 

Then peace unclasps her mantle and stoops down 
And wraps the dreamer in its hushing folds, 
Who smiling sighs, and sighing smiles again. 



How slow are words, they creep when they should fly, 
Or only skim the surface of a sea 
Of thought and action, flitting here and there 
Like humming birds that go from flower to flower, 
And leave more sweetness than they take away. 
How weak are words, they are expressionless 
When they should glow, and smouldering embers when 
They should be all aflame. 

—118- 



Within the visioned pictures of a dream 
The lights and shadows of the past come out, 
And melt into each other, and are gone 
Before the needed words can show them forth; 
As one whose hand would paint a wind-blown sky 
Of flying clouds, or pencil down the storm. 
And in one sleep the passing moment ticks 
The tale of years, and memory touches up 
The canvass of the soul with swift, sure hands, 
And on it breathes a picture, grand, sublime; 
And just as swiftly memory wipes it out, 
And there's another, and we wake from sleep, 
And, like the artist who would paint the storm, 
We have remembered outlines, nothing more. 

Oh, if a man could write the thoughts that burn, 

That seethe, and scintillate within his brain, 

The world were bettered if it read aright; 

If he could catch and pin down on one page, 

But one small picture only, true to life, 

To love, to earth, to Heaven, he would not then 

Have lived in vain. 

Caius still lies asleep; 
His myriad memories guided and restrained 
Within the highway of a wondrous past; 
And now he stops again upon the road, 
That endless road which leads through endless change 
And progress, on and on to where God knows. 

As in some vivid transformation scene 
A curtain rises, and our eyes look through 
What we have seen and see it not at all, 
For they behold a thing more beautiful 

-119- 



And sight-entrancing than that seen before, 
So now he sees the glories of that time 
When love and mercy set dividing line 
Between what was and that which was to be; 
When Heaven and earth shook hands across that hour 
That held a Human-Godhead to its heart- 
That golden link for the broken chain 
Of love that was lost and found again, 
In that blest hour for the sons of men, 
And welded on in Bethlehem. 



BY THE WAY OF THE LORD 

On Zion hill the palace of a king; 
Within that palace, by the power of Rome 
Imperial murder sits upon the throne 
Of Solomon and David; squats, forsooth, 
Like some hyena waiting for its prey. 
It wears the robes and has the form of man, 
An aged man with features drawn and white, 
With trembling hands and deep-set, sunken eyes; 
With livid lines for what should be his lips, 
And when he opens them for further speech, 
As now he does, a bestial snarl comes forth 
With here and there a hiss, as though a snake 
Lay hidden in his throat: 

"Go to, thou fool, 
I tell thee, Archelaus, 'tis my will. 
Go send the Roman hither; go, I say!" 

"But father," Archelaus cries, "the youth 
Is utterly unknown of any here, 

-120- 



Save one, Sejanus, whom he brought with him, 
And though Augustus sends him unto thee 
With commendations, yet thou knowest not 
His temper for the work thou hast in hand. 
Why not the other? I have heard of him, 
He can be bought to do the devil's will, 
But for Marcellus, as he calls himself, 
I much misdoubt his fitness for thy needs, 
And I" — but Archelaus stops his words. 

His father's face is purple with his rage, 

And partly risen on one shaking arm 

He points one claw-like finger at his son, 

"I called thee 'fool,' and so thou art, thrice damned, 

Go! go! 'sdeath! dost thou defy me, fool!" 

He then falls backward speechless in his chair, 

But glares at him with eyes of awful hate; 

A froth is gathering slowly on his lips; 

The other sees and goes without a word. 

A sound without of fast approaching feet, 
The face of Herod changes as he hears, 
He wipes his lips and straightens in his chair. 
A youth, perchance of twenty summer-suns, 
Enters with careless grace and stands before 
The king, and bows with outward reverence, 
Yet with a haughtiness but ill concealed. 

He wears a toga made of silk and wool, 
With threads of gold inwoven; on his feet 
Are jeweled sandals also shot with gold. 
His face is more than perfect for a man's, 
And with no trace of weakness shadowed there; 
Patrician is he, wholly, head to heel. 

—121- 



When age doth show unsulliedness of soul, 
It joys to look upon the face of youth, 
To live in it its own youth o'er again; 
When age is vile it hates what it hath lost, 
Its purity, its dauntless, fearless heart, 
Its never fading paradise of hope, 
For that the future hath for it in store. 
And Herod hides that hate within his breast, 
Where now ten thousand others follow fear. 

But when he speaks his voice is soft as down; 
"Thy name? Methinks I have forgotten that." 

"I am Marcellus Scaevola, of Rome, 

Sent hither, Sire, to flesh my maiden sword, 

And if occasion hap, and thou art kind, 

To build up name and fame in this fair land." 

"Hadst thou not chance more fit in Roman wars, 
Or in Augustus's court, than here in mine, 
Who am to Caesar but as moon to sun?" 

Marcellus hides a smile beneath his hand, 
And answers warily, "Not so, O king, 
For every honor in the gift of Rome 
A myriad veterans strive in camp and court; 
Rome hath a glory-roll of deathless names 
That opportunity did lift to fame; 
But now the fit occasion must be made, 
And one must fit occasion. Were I now 
Another Julius Caesar Rome would grow 
For me another Brutus. So I come 
To tender thee my sword, and do thy will, 
And mount what rungs I may till I am strong 
Enough to fend myself against all foes, 

—122- 



Then back to Rome I go, if life be spared. 
All that I ask is this, when thou hast need, 
Then I will be thy sword and work thy will." 

Ha, yea," the king returns, "whate'er my will? 
Ha, humph, the need of kings. Suppose I said 
'Go forth and slay this man, that woman, child, 
The priests of God, thy friend, Sejanus,' ha, 
Wouldst thou not question, ere thy sword was drawn, 
Till'thy opinions flung its sheath away?" 

"No, by great Jove," Marcellus answers him, 
"The thrones of kings cemented are with blood, 
And power doth crown itself with gory wreaths, 
No, by Olympus, try me, king, and see; 
Deeds answer questions." 

"Sometimes answer wrong," 
The king says suavely, "but we'll see, we'll see; 
I'm getting old, good youth, my thoughts are old, 
Let me collect them, we have need, humph, ha, 
Great need of swords like thine, and friendship too, 
And loyalty; but let me think awhile; 
My youth returned while thou didst speak ere now, 
The old forget, why did I send for thee?" 

"Forget, old fox!" Marcellus mutters, "thou?" 

The king sits silent with his head half bent, 
But looking from beneath his shaggy brows 
Intently at the soldier's smiling face. 

"A spy of Caesar's probably," he thinks, 
"I'll mix him up with this, 'sdeath, I will, 
So I can say, if any dare complain, 

-123- 



'This man did spur them on, he did this thing, 

He is a Roman, he is Caesar's friend; 

Here is the letter with its Roman seal, 

In which Augustus doth commend him much; 

The servant doeth but the master's will. 

I'm sorry, sorry, would to God on high 

This evil had not prospered.' " Then he laughs, 

Or rather chuckles softly in his throat, 

And chokes and coughs, and coughs and chokes again, 

Until a slave approaches bringing wine, 

Of which he drinks both copiously and long; 

And then aloud, "Hast heard the Magi tale? 

Thou hast? Of course. Well, well, they came to me 

And claimed that they were led by that bright star, 

Which shone a many nights within the sky, 

And vanished less than forty nights agone. 

Thou heardst that also, ha? 

Well, these three men 
Were brought before me and they sought my aid 
To find a new born king, king of the Jews; 
They sought Him, so they said, to worship Him. 
I entertained them well and sent them forth 
To find the Child and bring me word of Him, 
That I might go and worship Him, dost see? 
The men have gone from me these forty days, 
I well believe that they have played me false. 
A king gives up his throne of will to none, 
And while I live I sit on David's seat, 
When I am dead a Heaven or hell may reign, 
I care a curse not which. 

Now listen yet; 
When they came not I bade the Rabbis here, 
And sought to know if prophesies of old 
Held any clew from whence a king should come, 

—124- 



And they as with one voice gave answer thus; 
'Of Bethlehem of Juda.' 

Humph, ha, see? 
Thou dost declare thy wish to climb to fame, 
Well, here's a chance to base thy ladder on; 
Go thou to Bethlehem and find the Child, 
And bring Him hither; I would worship Him, 
Aye, make a god of Him instead of king. 
Bring Him to me and I will glut thy greed, 
And more than launch thee on the path to power. 
Dost hear me? wilt thou do it, yea or nay?" 

The old man's voice, so well disguised at first 
With softened accents and calm, even tones, 
Has risen to a shriek ere he has done; 
The mask has fallen also from his face, 
The beast hath full possession. 

"Horrible!" 
Marcellus thinks, and he can barely keep 
His utter scorn from showing on his face, 
And his contempt from sounding in his voice, 
As he replies, "It is an easy quest, 
And scant of danger; thou dost overpay, 
And if thy wages be as promise these, 
Then I'm thy liegeman for a thousand years. 
When dost thou will I go, to night?" 

"This night," 
Commands the king, "before the morning watch; 
Let no one know thy mission, no one, mind. 
Thou mayst retire, I wish thee good success — 
Yet hold, thy friend, Sejanus, send him here 
With Archelaus, I have use for both. 
Thou art a sturdy staff, but I want more 

—125— 



In case one breaks; humph, ha, or rotten grows. 
Farewell." 

Marcellus bows, too angry now 
For one word more, and leaves the audience room 
Swearing round Roman oaths beneath his breath. 
He feels as one let out from some foul den, 
Which smelt to heaven of blood and putrid bones. 

"By Jove and Jupiter, and all the gods! 

I go at once," he mutters to himself, 

But is detained, and when he does wend forth, 

'Tis over late. He takes one slave with him, 

One trusted slave. 

Alas, for faithfulness, 
It hath its price, methinks, as other goods; 
A silk and satin one costs more than wool, 
And if the wool hath cotton in't 'tis cheap, 
And kings have ever gear enough to buy 
Whichever suits their fancy or their need. 
The faith of slaves is as the faith of kings, 
There is no choice betwixt a treacherous twain, 
Save this, the cost. And thus the quest begins 
For that which is so hinged of love and God 
That on it hangs his turning point of time. 

The night is round him, overhead, beneath; 

The solemn night, the all-pervading night, 

Of star-laid beauty, mystery, and peace. 

And through it, yet untouched of it, he goes, 

Without one qualm, as debonairly goes 

As he has gone full many a time before 

To dare some dangerous chancing, or to keep 

A tryst more dangerous 'neath the mute-mouthed moon. 



-126- 



The uneventful road draws slowly back, 

As horse and rider go upon their way; 

The former an Arabian pure of breed, 

A horse that kings have sighed for and in vain, 

That Croesus' self had gold too scant to buy: 

But there are things can purchase more than gold, 

Aad these this man has given for this horse. 

He paid in deeds worth more than golden gear, 

And knew not that he paid, or that he bought, 

Until the purchase came as Ackbar's gift, 

Whose life his sword had saved from shameful death, 

So Roman rumor ran, and none knew more 

From any tale Marcellus ever told. 

The horse and rider are a perfect pair. 

"Well, well, my Selma, art thou dreaming too?" 
Marcellus asks the mare, who understands, 
Or seems to, for she shakes her slim gray head, 
And snorts, and champs her bit. 

"No, dost thou say, 
A soldier never dreams? Why, that's a lie, 
For I've been dreaming. 'Tis the night, methinks, 
It doth affect me strangely, why is it? 
Perchance, what I did see in Herod's face, 
The murderous dog! What better then am I? 
Abadon's in the night. Why said 1 that? 
I'll fool no more with thoughts of kings or knaves; 
I'll think no more, but act. Come, Selma, come." 

The horse obeys, and soon with unchecked speed 

Is leaping up the garden terraced road 

Which leads to Bethlehem. Arriving there 

Marcellus seeks the only traveler's khan 

The ancient village boasts. The door is barred, 

—127— 



But at his stern demand, "In Herod's name," 
He gains admission to the inner court, 
And wakens without scruple those he finds 
Within the square enclosure. But in vain 
He questions each and all, until at last 
A tall old man in burnoose made of silk, 
That gleams like silver in the shadowed light, 
Comes at his call, and answers, 

"Yea, my lord, 
I know of Him thou seekest, and of thee. 
Truly the fates are kind, we meet again." 
And this is said in purest Roman speech. 

Surprise at first doth close Marcellus' lips, 

Then words break through, "What brings thee hither, man? 

The eagle doth not oft consort with crows, 

Nor doth the lion lie beside the wolf; 

The noble Ackbar must have mighty cause 

To let a kennel house him, such as this." 

The other answers, "Lord, the reason waits, 

Hast thou the time to listen?" 

"Yea, good friend, 
The night is not far spent," Marcellus says, 
"And often one wins time by using time." 

"Then," says the other, "bring thy horse in here 
Beside my own. See, my Gazelle, thy mate, 
Be good to her, she is of thine own blood." 
Then, turning to his friend the Bedouin says, 
"Deign thou to go with me some little ways 
Without the gates." 

And they go forth together. 

All the night is hushed and peaceful, as if sleep 
Had settled on her nesting brood of dreams, 

-128- 



And they were singing softly, "God is love." 
Their steps tend toward a cave beside the khan; 
Near by its rugged doorway Ackbar stops, 
And pointing to a low projection says, 

"Will not my lord be seated? Words steal time, 
As thou hast said, but some return fourfold; 
And things worth telling, if by any chance 
They find attentive ears, enchain the soul 
Until it may forget it lives in flesh, 
And so disdain its needs. Thou lookest worn." 

Marcellus answers Ackbar, " 'Tis the moon, 

The jade's an artist, with an artist's whims, 

I've seen her touch up many a homely face 

Until it rivaled Hebe's for the nonce, 

And turn a Hebe's to — but let that go; 

Can half a score of miles tire frames like mine? 

Well, be it as thou wilt, and now thy tale." 

The Arab seats himself beside his friend, 

"Sometimes I wonder," he begins, "if Heaven, the earth, 

And God, and man, are not close joined together; 

If the words we speak do not repeat themselves 

To ears of being higher than our own. 

Be not surprised, my lord, at aught I say, 

I came not here to meet thee of myself, 

But I was sent, by whom, and why, my tale 

Will show to thee. 

On such a night as this 
Returning home I found beside the way 
A dying man, I thought so at the time, 
Thanks be to God, my thought was wrong. 
Of men like him earth holds too few to spare. 

-129— 



I bore him to my tent and gave him care, 

And what he needed most, to eat and drink, 

And rest, but he was sick for many days; 

Death lost its prey and I, I gained a friend, 

His name Balthasar, of that ancient race, 

Which, as thou knowest, wrote along the Nile 

Its history in stone. He was a priest, 

A prince; I found him more — a noble man; 

Deep souled, deep minded, with no little thoughts. 

One day he told the tale I have to tell. 

It is not given, Marcellus, unto all 

To read the secrets of the earth and sky; 

Most minds are like the waters of a lake, 

Reflecting beauty, but untouched of it; 

Most thoughts are surface thoughts, a hair-breadth deep, 

And being shallow find but shallow things. 

Thou mayst not know it but Egyptian priests 

Have ancient tablets wonder-written-in 

About the earth, the stars, the Heaven of heavens, 

And Him who rules them all. These ancient stones, 

Far underneath their temples are concealed 

In secret rooms more hoary still than they; 

Close barred and guarded are they from all men, 

Save priest, and prince, and king. And there one day, 

Within a room his seeking chanced upon, 

Balthasar found, beneath a pile of dust 

Forgotten years had shaken from their feet, 

A broken stone on which was writ these words: 

'There shall be born a Ruler for the soul, 

And she shall know her King. He shall be born. 

Watch thou the stars, God's star shall lead thee on.' 

And now what follows is in his own words:" 

-130- 



"And as I held the stone it crumbled down 

Into a little dust-heap in mine hand. 

For years had I sought God with tireless mind, 

Each day had I with earnest words and prayers 

Besieged the gates of truth. In vain; but now 

I knew I had been answered. Watch the stars! 

I needed nothing more. From heaven's first star 

That pierced the twilight shadows, to the last 

Which faded out into the morning-dawn, 

I watehed. And time went on, days, months, and years, 

Until one night upon the temple tower 

My faith and patience found their full reward. 

That night the great fulfillment came to me; 
It came as kings come down a way prepared; 
The heavens above me seemed to roll away, 
To move asunder, like two opening doors, 
And through them flooded down a golden light 
That broadened as it came, as thou, my son, 
Hast seen upon a lake, when in the west 
The low hung moon lays down its shining veil 
Upon the water's breast; one moment thus, 
Then down this royal road from its far source, 
As pin's point small, yet brighter than the sun, 
The star came slowly as down glory-stairs 
An angel bore it blazing on his head. 
Greater it grew and greater still its light; 
Although intensely bright it did not blind. 

At last it stopped above me, and the heavens 
Closed softly over, leaving it alone. 
No other stars seemed there within the sky; 
Its splendor shut them out; I knelt and prayed; 
And then a Voice said, 'Follow thou the star, 
Thy brothers wait thee!' and I swift obeyed. 

—131- 



I met them on the desert; one a Greek, 
And one a Hindu. Thus, O Ackbar, came 
From earth's three corners, faiths to worship God, 
And faiths to follow where the omen led. 

We three together sought the Heaven-born Child, 

And lo, we found Him, not as thou mightst think 

In royal purple, cradled on a throne, 

But lying in a manger in a cave, 

Clothed like a peasant's child, but overhead 

The hand of God within that wondrous star 

Pointed straight downward, and we doubted not. 

The stars have voices if we listen well, 

And if one ever spoke that star did say, 

'O world, behold thy King!' 

He needs a throne 
Who hath the lusts of man; he needeth gold 
Who hath not in his soul the wealth of God; 
For Him who hath it all what need hath he? 

We worshipped HIM. We gave our little gifts, 
How small they seemed for such a One as this, 
But yet we gave them Him, frankinsense, myrrh, 
And gold, and yet of these were we so shamed 
That with one voice we added, 'And our lives, 
If Thou shalt ever need them, they are Thine.' 

And there we parted, till that hour shall call, 

'Do that ye promised for the Child, 'tis time.' 

Silently parted, going each his way, 

For each of us was warned within a dream, 

'Return not as ye came. They seek His life.' 

And so we went away content to wait 

Till our small powers Almighty Power can use." 

-132— 



"This, lord Marcellus, is a strange, strange tale; 
Thy face betrays thy doubt, and scorn withal, 
Of that which beareth not the stamp of use. 
Must things be common, dusty with old age 
To be the truth? But stay, look thou above, 
What seest thou? The moon, the stars, the deeps, 
So boundless and so endless mortal sight 
Plunges within it and is drowned and lost. 
What holds yon circling powers upon their course? 
They are not belted on as is thy sword, 
They move thou knowest, then why fall they not 
In crashing ruin on yon smiling hills? 
Why are they still unflung beyond the sight, 
And lost, thus lost to earth, is that not strange? 
Is that not wondrous as this tale of mine? 
Wonders are round about thee, hedge thee in, 
Do live within thee, and thy sandaled feet 
Press down on wonders; wonder crowns thy brow, 
And breathes upon thee light and life and love. 
Who doeth this? What answer else but, God. 
Therefore, withhold thy scorn and unbelief 
For there is more to tell. When I have done, 
Then judge of truth by what in thee is true. 

One night I lay awake upon my couch; 
Balthazar slept upon a pile of skins 
Between me and the doorway of my tent. 
The night was still and breathless as the dead; 
There was no moon, the very starlight seemed 
Like torchlight burning out behind a veil. 
The darkness grew until my waking eyes 
Saw nothing. Suddenly that wall of gloom 
Was pierced with mellow rays; from where I lay 
I saw them creeping slowly in and rest 

-133- 



Like some soft splendor on Balthazar's form. 

And following them, a figure, mark me well, 

A figure made of light came floating in 

And stood beside him. On its lofty brow, 

As on a kingly head a kingly crown, 

A blazing star was set, whose glory-gleams 

Blinded mine eyes. I saw the form no more 

But this I heard, 'Awake, He needs thy care.' 

The voice was soft and low, a dream of speech, 

As though two lovers' thoughts had met and kissed 

And then looked at each other with a smile. 

'He who would harm Him waits beside the way; 
Let him who is thy friend redeem thy vow; 
Awake! awake!' and then the glory passed. 

My eyes unclosed, and there upon his feet 
Balthazar stood within the starlit door; 
The light still lingered round him as his soul 
Had written on his form,- — 'I've been with God.' 
A time he stood there, then he turned and spake: 

'Ackbar, my friend, I ask of thee a boon; 

They seek the Child. My Lord hath chosen thee, 

For he who would betray Him is thy friend.'' 

'I know,' I interrupted, 'I will go.' 

'Truly our God is great,' Balthazar said, 
'How didst thou know?' 

And then I told him all; 
He mused a moment, and then spake again: 

'Knowest thou him, of whom the angel told, 
Among thy many friends how wilt thou know?' 

-134- 



'I have not many friends,' I answered him, 
'The name of friend we Arabs give to few, 
Our deserts are unbounded and they breed 
Unbounded faith in him whom once we trust; 
Thou and one other are my only friends.' 

' 'Tis well,' Balthazar said, 'and 'tis God's will; 
God builds on friendship bulwarks unto God.' 

And so I came away, and found thee here." 
Then springing to his feet, he stands and cries, 
"With lifted hands that writhe themselves in prayer: 
"O Thou Eternal Splendor of the skies, 
Prove Thou unto this man how great Thou art; 
He is my friend, hath eaten of my salt, 
Hath plucked me from the very deep3 of death, 
Else had I fought him other than with words, 
And walled the Child in with a thousand spears; 
My power is bound, the bonds rest in Thy hands." 
He ends his prayer and looks upon his friend. 

The Roman's face is white with rage and grief 
So intermingled that they shake his form, 
As whirlwinds shake the cedars on the hills. 
"By all the gods," he cries, "thou meanest me?" 

And Ackbar answers quietly, "Yea, thee." 

Within Marcellus' ruthless Roman mind 
There lurks, unrecognized of thought, 
Another and a nobler. Know ye this, • 
There are two minds in man, or else one mind 
Where lies the list of two opposing powers, 
One armed of soul, the other of the flesh; 
The mortal one breast-plated is of pride, 

—135— 



Visored of stubborn will, and plumed of self; 
The other one doth bear the shield of truth, 
Doth hold the spear of righteousness in rest, 
But time doth blunt the point against the foe. 

And now a battle royal tears this man, 
A sudden feeling that the thing is true, 
A sudden shame to feel that it is true, 
Are sword and spear to what is worst in him; 
But even these pierce not his iron will, 
And, like a hunted lion brought to bay, 
He rages at the spear that pricks his pride, 
And fights the sword that wounds him. 

"Friendship, Jove!" 
He cries, "thou prayest to a faithless God, 
Who knows not faith or friendship. See thou here, 
Let friendship go, 'tis but a sorry gaud, 
I ask not shield of it 'gainst thee or thine! 
Bring on thy Arab dogs!" He draws his sword, 
"On guard, O friend!" he laughs in bitter scorn; 
"What, wilt not fight?" as Ackbar makes no move 
To guard himself, "Thou art a coward, bah! 
Perchance this, then, may make thee brave awhile," 
And walking forward strikes him on his face, 
Then springing backward cries, "Now wilt thou fight?" 

And as he does from all around him rise 

A throng of forms, that wall the shiek about 

With glittering spears. Before Marcellus' arm 

Can strike one blow, his sword is wrenched from him, 

And he thrown down, and held by many hands. 

Then Ackbar wakes, awakes as from a dream; 

His livid face is like a dead man's, save 

One blood-red cheek whereon the Roman's sword 

—136- 



Has left its mark; awakes to angry speech: 
"Yusef, thou dog! where dost thou hide thy face?" 

"It is not hidden, Master, I am here," 

And straightway from the mass a man steps forth, 

An Arab of the Arabs, dark and fierce; 

"I did but guard thee, I have done no wrong," 

He says undauntedly. 

"No wrong, forsooth," 
His-master sternly says, "Didst hear me call? 
I called thee not. Thou shamest me! No wrong? 
But I'll o'erlook it just this once, no more. 
Unhand my lord Marcellus, get his sword, 
And give it to him, Yusef, by the point, 
That he may use it on thee if he wills. 
And then Marcellus," and he bares his breast, 
"Here is my heart," he says in low, calm tones, 
"Strike here, let out its life, and let its blood 
Prove to thee I'm no coward; take this life, 
The life thou gavest me, 'tis thine to take." 

The Roman makes no move; he stands there dumb; 
And breathless is the hush that falls between. 
And then the Arab speaks, "So get ye gone!" 

Like ghosts they came, like ghosts they disappear; 
It seems unto Marcellus that the rocks 
That gave then silent birth, have opened up 
Their silent wombs and swallowed them again. 

"Hearken, ye desert eagles," cries the shiek, 
Whose voice uplifted pierces through the night, 
"Swear to obey this man, he is my friend, 
To make your lives the liegemen of his need, 
Swear! swear! that he may hear, to do my will!" 

—137— 



And from around them, from the vales below, 
The hilltops o'er them, and the rock-bound floor 
On which they stand, there comes a mighty voice 
That echoes and re-echoes far and near, 
"We swear." 

E'en while the echoes linger yet, 
The Arab speaks, "And now, O friend, strike home, 
If I have wronged thee even in my thoughts." 

But he, ashamed, draws once again his sword, 
And casts it from him with a bitter curse, 
And bows his head and speaks no single word. 

Then Ackbar comes and touches him, "My lord, 
The God that sent me to thee stayed thy hand, 
Hath saved thee from a deed thou wouldst regret. 
'Tis not my life I care for, but 'tis thine, 
For I am old, but thou, my friend, art young. 
Regret is as a stone laid on one's back, 
And every pound of it the years make twain, 
Until life totters 'neath the full grown load. 
The fault was mine, my words did anger thee, 
I ask thy pardon for their witless sense, 
They speared the lion and he bit the shaft." 

And then Marcellus lifting up his head, 
"Thou art a noble man, and I am not; 
Thou couldst give lessons to patrician Rome, 
On what is stainless honor and true faith. 
I am unworthy now to call thee friend, 
But such as now I am cries, friend, forgive, 
And that's a word scarce heard on Roman lips." 

"A word," quoth Ackbar, "that doth make a man 
A very king, for he doth rule himself. 

-138- 



And now my lord, Marcellus, let it pass, 
Forget it as thou wouldst a troubled dream. 
Come, let me show thee where the Child was born, 
That thou mayst know a palace makes not thrones, 
Nor glut of fear the majesty of kings. 
Come thou with me within yon stable door." 

Marcellus turns and they go in together. 
The place is as a tomb, as dark with gloom 
And silent, save for sound of breathing life 
Where cattle lie asleep. Across the cave 
The Arab leads the way and stops beside 
A simple manger built against the wall; 

"Here," says he softly, "lay the Royal One." 

E'en as he speaks there comes a low, sweet sound 
Of whispering voices like the sound of song 
Shut in within a temple; then a light 
Suffuses all the place, soft as the sheen 
Of heaven's moon-shadowed stars. 

Prone on his face 
The Arab chieftain falls. The Roman stands 
Erect upon his feet, too proud is he 
To let one feature show the tumult in his soul; 
His steady eyes look down upon the spot, 
Where once the Babe was lain, and there he sees 
A pale, white, tiny flower that seems to grow, 
Leaf after leaf, from bud to perfect bloom; 
A star-shaped blossom, shining like a star, 
It seems to lift itself as though it said — 
"I am for thee," and something in him answers, 
"Yea, for me," and reaching forth his hand 
He clasps the stem. A thrill runs through his frame, 

—139— 



As though he felt the touch of finger-tips 
Writing upon his hand, "Remember me." 

It may have been the stress-fraught hour just passed, 

The utter silence coming after sound, 

Whose wide contrasting whole hath blinded sense, 

And for the moment given spirit sight, 

To see one flash of memory shatter walls, 

And place, and distance, overturn the years, 

And like a homing angel fold its wings 

Of sudden splendor in the dawn of time. 

He sees a form upon a couch of flowers, 

Uplifted on one arm, a woman's form, 

With face upturned, with eyes like two deep wells 

Slow-filling from some wonder-spring of dreams; 

He sees an arm upreaching, in the hand 

The flower, and hears a soft voice saying, "See, 

It is my dream in bloom." 

Then shudders back 
Upon the instant memory to its cell, 
Soul to its sense-bound prison-house, and then 
His eyes see nothing but the gloom-hung cave, 
The shadowy outlines of the Arab's form, 
Which still lies prostrate on the rocky floor. 
Awhile he stands there, rooted to the place. 

And then he feels the flower within his hand, 
And starts to quickened life, "It was no dream," 
He whispers to the dark, "I have it here." 

"Didst speak?" the Arab questions, rising up, 
"Now dost believe, for God Himself was here?" 



-140- 



Marcellus hides the flower ere he replies, 
And when he does he only says, "I? No." 

And then the other, "Didst thou not say 'here'?" 

"Perchance, maybe I said it in my sleep," 
The Roman answers in sarcastic tones. 

"I thought I did but voice thy very words, 
When I said to thee 'God Himself was here.' " 

"Dost thou believe that, Ackbar, dost thou think 

God talks with man? Man dreams He does, 

And then awake declares it was no dream — " 

He stops as though some thought had shamed his words, 

And then, "The hour grows late, and I must go." 

And then more coldly, "And this mummery tires," 

And he laughs harshly, "It was well conceived." 

Now even while he speaks he deeply feels 
That his false words dishonor what he knows, 
But this has been his habit, and still is, 
To stand by that his thought has foreordained, 
Determined from the first. 

"May God forgive!" 
Cries Ackbar, "me and thee our unbelief." 

Marcellus, angrily, "That I forbid, 
I need no intercessor for my soul, 
I'll not ask mercy when I do my best; 
If God condemns, then He is my fell foe; 
I ask forgiveness only of my friends. 
Enough of this, I've dallied here too long, 
I'll on about my business. Fare thee well." 

-141- 



He turns and leaves the cave, and Ackbar hears 
Soon on the night the song of flying hoofs 
Singing in softening cadences below. 

"It is with God," he cries, "it is with Him; 
He will protect His own, I do not fear. 
What is to be is carven on the heart 
Of all things, be they human or divine." 

No more he says that anyone might hear, 
And with a sigh he goes his silent way 
Among the moonlit shadows, and is lost. 



He who would tread where once a God hath passed 

Must tread with reverent feet the reverent way, 

E'en as he would a temple's storied aisles, 

Sacred to Pan or Jove, or whom ye will. 

The home of something great subdues the flesh 

And lifts the spirit into nearer touch 

With worship, be it false or be it true. 

And so with him, whose stubborn will yet holds 
His dreaming contact with some unknown power. 

The love-winged vision, and the light, the flower, 
Have raised him from the pit of his own pride, 
And set him over his accustomed self. 
And as the night- winds cool his fevered brow, 
His calmer mood reacts upon the horse, 
Who stays his stride, and only ambles on, 
As one who e'en obeys his master's wish, 
Though unexpressed. On, on across the night 
The}? go; on, on, remorseless as the grave. 

-142— 



Marcellus rides deep buried in his thoughts, 
They writhe around the wonder of the flower, 
Which now he holds once more within his hand. 

"What is this thing?" he asks his troubled heart, 

*'I am no dreamer, but I saw that face, 

I heard the voice that said, 'my dream in bloom;' 

I seemed another for one little space. 

What other ever dreamed upon his feet, 

With waking eyes? Ah, bah! I am a fool! 

I'll throw the thing away, 'tis something wierd. 

No I will not, " he holds the flower aloft 

As 'twere a sentient thing, and speaks to it — 

"I do defy thy magic and thy power, 

I'll wear thee on my robe, so, stay thou there, 

It is my lady's favour; aye, why not?" 

And then he laughs, "Did she not give it me? 

I were a craven not to wear her gift." 

And then he laughs again. The hollow rocks 
Laugh back with mocking voice, for he is now 
Within a narrow way whose walls arise 
Precipitous and high on either side; 
The echo rouses man and horse alike. 

"Ha," cries Marcellus, "e'en the stones cry 'shame!' 
And spur us onward. Haste, my queen, away." 



The dawn has almost come, the baby day 
Within his cradle o'er the misty hills 
Is winking at the stars, and with pink fingers 
Toying with the tresses of the night. 

-143- 



But night still holds her throne, zoned with the moon, 

And panoplied with eyes that gaze below 

Upon the Light and Glory of the worlds, 

Condensed within one tiny human form. 

The silent zephyrs lie in moveless sleep, 

But breathe on something sacred in their dreams. 

Why, O ye mountains, did ye speechless stand? 

Why, O ye hill-tops, had ye then no voice? 

The vales beheld Him, and they uttered "God." 

And there, in one of these, Marcellus finds 
The objects of his quest, the holy twain, 
Just where the vallied archways of the hills 
Out-flung their rock-bound portals to the moon. 

Here have they stopped, the mother and the Child, 

And Joseph also, for much needed rest. 

They have not thought of danger, for all things 

Have seemed to whisper to them, be at peace; 

So fear dropped from them as they went their way, 

And Mary felt the leading of her Lord 

And trusted in Him. Oh, a woman's faith! 

If man had half the fullness of her trust, 

The temples where man worships could not hold 

One tiny portion of God's worshipers. 

In Mary's heart what room was there for fear, 

When to that heart her spirit said "Trust God"? 

So when there strikes upon her startled ears 

The sound of hoof-beats coming, nearing fast, 

And bursting through the rock-doored backward way, 

Appears a Roman soldier on a horse, 

And they stop close beside her, doth she fear? 

Not e'en an eyelash shows she is afraid. 

The man dismounts and looks her in the face. 

—144— 



She has thrown back her mantle ere he came, 
And bared her-iace unto the night's soft kiss. 
That face is like one dreams an angel's is, 
Sweet as a flower, and calm as some deep pool, 
That glasses Heaven and mirrors there its peace. 

And he, the man, stands still without a word, 
He feels as though his very soul kneels down, 
In utter worship at this woman's feet; 
And there her soul did kneel beside his own, 
And these like children say one prayer together. 

Not long does flesh so lose itself in soul; 

And now his senses re-assert their sway. 

He looks upon her face with senseful eyes. 

Here, where she stands, the hills wide open swung, 

Let in a flood of light, which like a flood 

Dammed up upon its course breaks into waves, 

And cataracts of light, that drench her form; 

And on her golden tresses lays a crown; 

And there she stands a very queen indeed, 

A queen of queens with all her jewels on. 

"Great Jove," Marcellus murmurs, "Gods! that face, 

I saw it in the cave. Take back thy flower," 

He says with reverent voice, "for it is thine," 

But, as she lifts no hand, low bending down 

He lays it on the bosom of the babe, 

Who with wide open eyes looks up at him; 

And in those eyes he looks and loses self — 

Self's stubborn will, its pride, and for the time, 

His evil heart. Half dazed he lifts his gaze 

Unto the mother's face; he sees her lips 

Are moving as her eyes behold the flower, 

—145— 



And thinks he hears — 

"It is my dream in bloom;" 
Was it her lips that said it, or his soul? 

He would have spoken more, but suddenly 
A solid wall seems dropped between the twain; 
He feels himself drawn back by some great force, 
Resistless in its might; and then he hears 
The voice of Joseph — 

"What dost wish of us, 
Good sir, and who art thou?" 

"I? Less than naught," 
He answers, "and wish naught of thee," and then 
With sudden passion, "or wish naught of thine." 

Then as a man who knows not what he does, 

Marcellus turns and vaults upon his mare, 

And pulls her round with such demoniac force, 

Her front feet leave the ground and beat the air, 

And her strong haunches almost sweep the earth, 

That spins around her as she turns herself 

With one great staggering, twisting, struggling bound, 

That leaves her standing, trembling like a leaf, 

Ten cubits space away; then with a neigh, 

That wakes the echoing rocks with answerings shrill, 

She makes another bound and flees afar, 

Swift as the frightened deer that hears the cry 

Of hungry lions racing on its track; 

And morning breaks. 



-146- 



IN THE FATHER'S HOUSE 

Within the dreamer's vision now unfolds 
Another scene, the second of the three, 
Whose trinity of truth for him had been 
His soul's redemption. 'Tis a noble scene 
That forms before the dreamer, one God-built; 
One thought of His of glory carved in stone 
And set upon the hills, those sacred hills, 
That on their lower laps of beauty bear 
The holy city of the Prophet Kings — 
Jerusalem. But though Jerusalem 
Is fair and grand, God's thought is fairer still, 
And grander far, for it has builded here 
A temple for the soul, against whose base 
Soul's sea of sin should break and ne'er regain 
Its solid flood to drown a world withal. 

Before that Temple now the dreamer walks, 

And through Marcellus' eyes looks at the scene. 

Twelve years have much refined the Roman's face, 

But aged him not at all. Pivotal fate 

Has turned conception round upon the edge, 

The cycling edges of one Christful hour, 

And in the womb of custom's dazzled thoughts, 

Has left the foetus of new thoughts, desires, 

To be twin-born with his now struggling soul, 

And give that soul the pinions of the light. 

But all perfection comes by slow degrees; 
That his feet slip the rungs of lifting power, 

—147— 



And leave him torn and shaken by the shock, 
Full well he knows, but dominant and strong 
That stubborn will of his now chooses good, 
Where once it chose the evil, and aspires. 

Twelve years ago he had returned to Rome 
Disgusted with himself and with the world, 
And had returned to give his sword, his all, 
To battle for her glory and her power; 
And so had won distinction and high place; 
And, by the Emperor's will, was here endowered 
With almost kingly sway, for in his hands 
Are here the might and majesty of Rome 
Enthroned above Jerusalem, the great. 
Truly the song of Miriam might be sung, 
Against the pride that gave it proudful birth, 
"How are the mighty fallen," yet remains 
Unto this city, Canaan's dream of home, 
Some portion of the glory of its past; 
For still its Temple clasps God's holy place, 
And still His peace doth fold its dove-like wings 
Above it and within it. 

On this day, 
That marks the advent of another scene 
Into the dreamer's soul, Marcellus stands 
Facing the mount, that like an island holds 
The shining walls, and pinnacles and domes 
Of Israel's mighty Temple, round whose base 
A mass of walls and towers and turrets lie, 
Like some great sea whose waves had turned ito stone. 

Though long familiar to Marcellus' eyes 

This scene, though long familiar, too, the aisles 

And halls and corridors within, where feet 

—148— 



Of Gentile were allowed to tread, some force 
This day, this hour, doth urge him on and on, 
Where feet of his before had never been, 
Until a voice upon the listening air 
His footsteps stay, a low, sweet treble voice — 

"Is there no other meaning to the Feast, 
The Paschal Feast, the slaying of the lamb?" 

He hears the answer, "None that we have known." 

Another step or two and he beholds 

A picture, not on canvas nor in stone, 

(For earth hath never known the artist who 

Could reproduce the scene Marcellus sees) 

But one God-sculptured out of human life, 

And put together for one little while 

To serve as model for the centuries, 

That man might trace the limnings of His hand 

Upon the walls of time, 

A simple scene, 
The center holds a boy of barely twelve, 
With pure, sweet face and earnest, thoughtful eyes, 
Whose solemn depths reflect an eager soul 
That questions all the mysteries of life. 

And framing this pale cameo of youth, 
Are doctors and expounders of the law, 
Whose faces bear the finger-marks of years, 
Whose forms are clad in rich and jeweled robes; 
These men are learned, wise men every one, 
And each has won distinction and a name. 
Marcellus knows 'tis so, he sees the truth, 
For wisdom stamps her children with her seal, 

—149— 



And pays her debts in honor and in fame. 
If earthly wisdom is in Heaven's eyes 
But foolishness divine, yet let us strive 
As Jacob with the angel, till we force 
A blessing; though the struggle last till dawn, 
The daybreak shall repay us for the toil. 
Thus shall we reach to higher, holier aims, 
So shall our mental muscles grow and swell, 
Until the mind, uplifting, bursts its chains, 
And grasps the edge of truth. 

And here stands wisdom, silver-haired and old, 

And leaning on a staff; here stands a man, 

A teacher, scholar, seer, one bony hand 

Uplifted as though half-deaf ears have heard 

Some doctrine new — some wonder-laden word, 

That palsied it in air; another sits 

So wrapped in thought at something new and strange, 

The leaves of parchment that contain the law 

Drop from his hand, though priceless are they all, 

And lie unheeded on the foot-stained floor. 

The group of Rabbis, venerable and wise, 
Are hushed to wondering silence by the Boy, 
Whose sweet, clear voice rings out in childish tones, 
That thrill like music down into each heart. 

Transfixed in wonder at so strange a scene, 
Marcellus lingers just outside the crowd, 
And from the shadowy archways of a door, 
Unseen, unnoticed, there beholds it all. 

A dreamy sense of peace and mystery 
Enwraps his soul; the awed and silent throng 

—150- 



About the Boy seems fading from his sight, 

He seems to stand alone within the room, 

Before the white-robed Child, his questioning eyes 

Upon that soul-inspiring, childish face; 

And now the voice is but a murmuring sound, 

As one who whispers softly in his sleep; 

And then, with all the flitting fancies of 

A real dream, another face appears 

To his soul- vision while he stands entranced; 

A face that bends with tender mother-love, 

Above a little Child, upon whose breast 

A pure white blossom lies. Marcellus wakes 

As from a dream-bound sleep, and waking sighs, 

And murmurs to himself, 

"Alas, that face, 
'Tis strange it haunts me so these many years! 
I know not how, I cannot understand, 
And yet I feel that strange mysterious power 
Within that face hath changed completely all 
My future life. The tale that Ackbar told 
Bore on its face the quaint, wierd traces of 
Egyptian mysticism; yet — ah well, 
I swear by Jupiter and Jove and all the rest, 
No eastern mummeries bewitched me thus! 

Yon Jewish lad, who sets those gray-haired scribes 

To rubbing up their rusty wits, methinks 

Hath turned my memory on a backward path 

That leads to Bethlehem. By Caesar's throne! 

A Roman soldier musing of the past, 

Within the Jewish Temple! Jove! 'tis time 

I seek the outer court before I'm caught 

And held within the tangled meshes of 

Another dream — and yet — 'tis passing strange — " 

—151— 



He turns away and with reluctant feet 

Moves slowly down the terraced walk, his head 

Bowed low in thoughtful revery. 

"I pray thee, Master, hast thou seen my boy?" 
A timid voice is pleading at his side. 
Marcellus starts and quickly turns to see 
An anxious mother-face upturned to his, 
A pair of mystery-brimming eyes that hold 
The sorrows of the world within their deeps. 

As though his form were carven out of stone 
The Roman stands there mute and still; at last 
The scales fall from his blinded eyes; his face 
Gleams with a sudden knowledge of the truth. 
He glances toward the Temple portico, 
Where in the midst of yon encircling throng, 
The youthful teacher speaks with wondrous ease. 
The woman's eyes have followed his, and now 
She turns on him a startled, questioning look, 
And in her eagerness to know the truth, 
Her nervous fingers clutch unconsciously 
The Roman soldier's arm. He cannot speak, 
Speech trembles on his lips, but they are dumb; 
He answers with a nod; the woman turns 
And with impassioned feet that scarcely touch 
The marble floor, springs forward towards the group. 

The peasant mother is not over-awed 
By priestly robes, or wisdom's frowning face; 
With sweet unconsciousness she passes by 
The Rabbis and the Doctors of the Law; 
She only sees a childish form and face, 
And hurries to his side; and now she speaks 
To him in trembling tones of mild reproach: 

-152— 



"Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? Behold 
Thy father and I sought thee sorrowing." 

The Boy looks up in calm surprise, and says, 
"How is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not 
That I must be about my Father's work?" 

Then with a beautiful submission turns 

And leaves behind His new found friends, the books, 

The wisdom of the age, whereof He sought 

An answer to the strange mysterious thoughts 

And half-revealed truths that drift, like leaves 

Upon the surface of a stream, across 

His youthful, wakening soul. He passes through 

The crowd, and follows in his mother's steps 

Across the open court and out once more 

Into Jerusalem's thronging streets. 

A Roman soldier guards them to the gates, 

And murmurs softly as they pass from sight, 

"The mystic Star-Child, born at Bethlehem! 

To be the Jewish king, so Ackbar said — 

And she — the mother — well, 'tis passing strange — " 



ROME 

The earth hath burst its chrysalis of old, 
And life and being climb with myriad feet 
Ascending ways of progress and of mind. 
The world of dominance and reason, wealth, 
The powers enthroned, have culminated here, 
And from far reaching radii have brought 

—153- 



A mighty capstone, set it on the hills, 

And called it Rome, the City of the Gods, 

Mother of kingdoms, birthplace of their kings, 

Whose monumental names yet blaze above 

The troubled waves of human histories, 

In beacon lights of flame, that shine like stars 

Beyond the reach of time's defacing touch. 

Thou haughty, conquering monarch of the earth, 
Wrapped in the purple mantle of thy pride, 
Upon the apex of thy pyramid, 
Thou too, hath set thy crown upon decay, 
Obeyed the law, unchanging law of change. 
Nothing stands still; 'tis either up or down; 
The height of glory means to fall below, 
The depth of shame doth mean to rise above. 

Until this time, religion, wealth and power, 
Had held their seat within the walls of Rome, 
The center drew from each extended vein 
All that it had of blood to feed its heart; 
Centralization was the law of life; 
But lo, the clock strikes! 

The passing ages ring the bells of truth 

In sad or joyous peals upon the ear, 

A living gloria or a mournful dirge, 

Whose sorrowful, deep tones have ever taught 

To foolish man humility is best, 

And pride the sure precursor to a fall. 

When man or nations reach so-called success, 
The earthquake trails their grandeur in the dust; 
The lightning strikes; and presto! where art thou? 

—154— 



Beyond a certain point, the fates ordain 
Man shall not tread on this side of the grave 
But fate is only nom-de-plume to change, 
And change is but another name for growth, 
And growth, the master athlete to the soul, 
The soul, a portion small, but yet a part, 
Of God Himself. 

For every race of people on the earth, 

The history of every nation holds 

The name of some one man in reverence; 

As he whose mortal life was part of God 

And held divine afflatus from on high. 

The Hindu sleeps with Buddha, poppy-crowned, 

And sinks into Nirvana's final rest; 

The Chinese hath Confucius; and the Turks 

Claim for their prophet, Allah's arm of might; 

The records of the Jews fish from the Nile 

Their great law-giver, part the Red Sea waves, 

And find their promised land of corn and wine, 

When Moses is no more. 

Yet all of these exponents are of race; 
They teach a doctrine and lay down a law 
That is the natural outcome of their lives; 
To know a people and their best and worst, 
Find out the attributes they give their gods. 

One only being, clad in mortal guise, 

Hath ever borne aloft a higher cult, 

A moral standard, purer than the race 

From which He sprang; and that one man is He, 

The Man of many Sorrows, and the Christ. 

Although a Jew, the Temple knew Him not, 

Or only caught the echo of His feet. 

-155- 



Far in a land whose rocky, sandy hills 
Are desolation's landmark to the eye; 
Within a little hamlet, poor and mean, 
So very small, that only now and then 
Some lone, benighted traveler finds his way 
Within its broken gates to rest awhile, 
From heat of noon or at the eventide, 
When darkening shadows bar the dusty road — 
A Child is born. 

It was a little Child, 
With face so pure and sweet and full of soul, 
That all who there beheld it said, " 'Tis He!" 

The wise men laid their offerings at His feet; 
Its mother knelt beside it there in prayer; 
And overhead, the Star of Bethlehem 
Glowed like the eye of God, and pointed down 
To where the infant Jesus lay asleep. 

The shepherds flung their crooks away and came 

To where the young Child was and said, "Tis He! 

We saw upon the eastern sky His star 

And come to worship Him. 

He is the Master Shepherd of the fold; 

His sheep, the children of this sinful world. 

Within the mighty barriers of His love, 

No ravening wolf shall enter in to spoil, 

No lion waste the warrens of His love; 

Hosanna, it is He, the Prince of Peace! 

The Heavens declared His glory and we came." 

'Twas but a Child, but on its shining brow, 

A diadem of light, more precious far 

Than all the crowning crowns of all the earth 

—156— 



Enrolled in one; engarnitured in gems, 

But not the slack and cinders of the world, 

But pearls of mercy, diamond-drops of love, 

The blood-red ruby of self-sacrifice: 

A Child, but greater than the greatest one 

That ever held the scepter of a king, 

Or wore the purple of imperial Rome. 

And now behold! Upon mutation's gong 

Change strikes the fateful hour, and from her height 

Among the clouds, Rome topples to her fall, 

And comes by slow gradations to the dust; 

For with a touch, those little Infant hands 

Send back the life blood through its dried up Vays, 

Drive from its center, backward through its veins, 

The clotted blood to its circumference, 

And distribution overthrows the law. 

Now ashes cover all thy royal robes, 

O Rome! Slaves sit at meat where, Caesar dined; 

And bigotry most foul, with iron clutch, 

Crawls like a dragon through thy ancient halls, 

And welters in the blood of martyrs slain, 

And done to death by false abuse of power. 

Hypocrisy doth wear a crimson hat; 

And mitred ignorance, clad in papal guise 

Squats at thy gates, and croaks from out the slime 

Of God's vicegerent, masses for the soul, 

Infallibility to purge away 

The sins of men, and with poor human hands 

Pull down from Heaven the mercy of a God, 

And barter it for gold. 

Still memory fondly clings about thy shrines, 
Thy broken altars and historic stones; 

—157— 



Still Caesar walks within thy palace walls, 

And Brutus's dagger drinks the blood of kings. 

Within thy Coliseum's mighty walls 

With straining arms still gladiators strive; 

And sparks from. clashing sword-blades light the gloom, 

And lift the pall from off thy heroes dead; 

Still wandering echoes linger in the air, 

The shout of conquest and the groan of pain. 

Thy greatness leaves behind thee on the page 
Of song and story, deep scored, underlined, 
A fame, whose eagle-wing doth lift thee up 
Until thy pinions catch the light of stars, 
And drop thee down to deeps, so dark and drear, 
No plummet-line can reach thee where thou art. 

Fair virtue folded in the arms of pride, 
Doth weep a widow o'er a Caesar's grave; 
And fiendish cruelty doth hold and press 
The tender hands of music in his own, 
The while he softly whispers in her ear; 
And, as her heart melodious answers back, 
He sears her palm with red-hot brands of flame; 
And courage, like a slave, lies at the feet 
Of vice and beauty, scarlet-dyed in shame; 
Religion, wisdom, who should hand in hand 
Combine to break the fetters of the soul, 
Forge new-made rivets, or unloose its bonds 
And lead it by a lie, more strong than they, • 
To deeper, darker dungeons than before. 

Thy past, O Rome, stands out in fadeless hues; 
Bright in the lights and dark the shadows are; 
Yet, on thy dust-crowned head we still would lay 
The victor's bays and laurels in thy praise. 

—158- 



THE COURT OF TIBERIUS 

While yet the sway of Rome was absolute, 
And from her center to her utmost bound 
One kingly hand held in its iron grasp 
The shackles of her slaves; and when the will 
And mandates of her rulers in their pride 
Meant war and desolation to the land, 
Or smiling peace and plenty, as her gift, 
Tiberius Caesar sat upon the throne. 

1 No one of all that lordly race of men, 

Who dubbed themselves the masters of the world, 
E'er loosed his conquering eagles on their prey, 
Or saw them sweeping downward in their might, 
With less of mercy in his heart than he. 
Beneath a cruel heel, crushed to the earth, 
He held the nations of that olden day; 
Power, wealth and glory, all are his; and yet — 
As some wild beast that snarls within its lair, 
A crouching tiger in his marble halls, — 
He waits his chance to ravage and destroy. 

'Tis men like these that verify the words, 
"The devil entered into him." Who knows 
But many are not human, but from Hell; 
A devil's spirit in its shell of flesh? 
The higher is the mountain-top from earth, 
The greater distance doth its summit show; 
And all pre-eminence in station here 
Is greater influence for good or ill, 

—159— 



And greater weight to lift or down the scale; 
And thou, Tiberius Caesar, art the man! 
But evil is that master and not good. 
For here are all the attributes of sin — 
In human lust and envy, greed and pride, 
And Hell's most faithful servant unto man, 
Ambition, misdirected and accursed. 

Within the throne-room, on his royal chair 
Of gold and ivory, Tiberius sits; 
Upon his brow Apollo's laurel crown, 
Within his wasted hand the scepter of 
Imperial rule; while at his feet, the world; 
Above his head an emblematic thing; 
'Tis but a bird, but lately brought to Rome, — 
Freedom in fetters struggling at its bonds, — 
An untamed, kingly eagle from the hills, 
And fastened by a costly, golden chain 
To where a marble pillar gives it place. 
It gazes with fierce eyes upon the crowd 
That silent there await the Tyrant's will, 
As fully cruel but less brave than he. 
It ruffles up its plumes with fretful wing, 
As if to say to all the multitude — 
Here is a king, ye slaves; look ye at me! 
Then settles to its perch and all is still. 

To this assembly of the Roman world 

There comes, with slow and stately step, a man 

Before whose presence every head is bent. 

This one among the hundreds gathered there 

Seems more a king than Caesar on his throne. 

Upon his noble form, the wearing touch 

Of marring time has barely shown its power. 

—160— 



Upon his face a cold, calm beauty lies, 

Like the reflected light of midnight stars 

Upon the sleeping bosom of a sea. 

Great, smouldering eyes whose liquid deeps disguise 

Their hidden fires, or flash to sudden flame; 

A mouth that Venus' self had thought well worth 

The sweetest pressure of her rosy lips; 

He comes among the others waiting there, 

Like some proud seraph wandering from his home; 

It is Marcellus, Caesar's truest friend, 

Patrician by so stainless right of birth 

That he by common wish and will of all 

Is their acknowledged leader, peer of him 

Upon whose shoulders lies the weight of rule, 

Sejanus, Caesar's sycophantic slave, 

The friend in which the Imperator trusts, 

But secretly his master and his foe. 

But that which angers weak Tiberius most 

Is this: Marcellus, to his own despite, 

Has come out firm and bold against this man, 

And, as a Tribune to the Roman state, 

Has torn the mask of falsehood from the face 

Of seeming Justice, with unsparing hand; 

And balked the tool, Sejanus, of his will. 

Marcellus takes his place beside the throne, 
In which the Caesar sits in moody thought, 
With that calm mien that conscious rights possess. 

As though his coming chimed in with the wish, 
The Emperor turns, and with a cold, hard smile, 
That only half conceals the frown beneath, 
Speaks thus: 

—161— 



"My prince of art, Marcellus, speak, 
And if thy honesty be such as may 
Hold equal issue with thy skill in art, 
Pray tell thy loving Caesar why thy feet 
Do tread in places which he wots not of? 
Thou art a stranger, verily thou art. 
Aforetime, thou wert ever at our side, 
And not so charry of thy face as now, 
At our assemblies and our own abode. 
Prithee, the truth; for nothing else will hold." 

"My lord," Marcellus answers, "truth is wont 

To be an errant damsel driven to 

The wall. She sometimes taketh refuge at 

An inn, whose sign is subterfuge. 

The truth, O Caesar, is unknown in courts — 

She breaks allegiance at the palace gates. 

Yet stay! I ask thy pardon for the jest. 

If I say on I shall have told a truth, 

And so per contra made the truth a lie. 

Out of thy kindness and good will, I pray 
That thou wilt here accept my service due, 
And my fair promise to redeem the past; 
So render fitting tribute unto thee, 
As love and duty shall appoint the way." 

Tiberius hears, and with sarcastic smile: 
"Marcellus, thou art frisky with thy tongue; 
For it doth play as many pranks with us 
As some young kitten with a paper ball. 
And now I have a question to propound; 
But mark thee well, a better answer in 
The asking it may give, than thou dost think, 

—162— 



Of what hath kept thee from our sight so long. 

Prepare thyself; I know of what I speak. 

The welfare of his friends is Caesar's care. 

We thought some lingering sickness held thee fast; 

And we are not far wrong, as it appears. 

There is disease that shows no outward trace; 

The cheek seems just as fresh as when fair health 

Doth paint it with the colors of the rose; 

And this most subtle of them all is what 

They call, ha, ha, Marcellus, heart disease. 

And now as I have interest in thy health, 

As thy physician, answer me this thing; 

How fares the saintly Hebrew, and, forsooth, 

And I bethink me, his fair daughter too? 

Ah! do I strike thee underneath the belt? 

Thou blushest like a very girl, ha, ha! 

Go to! Black eyes and cherry-ripe red lips, 

A dainty foot and modest, gentle mien 

May catch the best of us. How are they, well? 

But hold, for I must speak correctly here, 

If I would diagnose thy case aright. 

It is not they, but she, how is she, well?" 

The Caesar laughs again, and says no more, 

Watching with covert eye Marcellus' face. 

"They were, my lord, when I did see them last, 
Though somewhat weary at the long delay, 
And anxious to be gone," Marcellus says, 
While on his cheek and in his flashing eyes 
Shine more than blushes there. He bites his lip, 
Until the ruddy blood-drops stain his robe: 
For his proud spirit can ill brook the wit 
That dulls its edge at his expense and loss. 



—163- 



And then again, although he knows it not, 
This daughter of the Jew is more to him 
Than to be made the sport of idle jests. 
But wisdom conquers and he holds his peace, 
And with apparent calm continues thus: 

"Thy words, Tiberius, are not wisely said, 
For man can damn a woman with a jest 
That leaves impressions on the hearer's mind 
Of something worse than what the jest contains; 
For innocence and virtue ever should 
Find sure protection at the hands of man, 
And in our hearts its surest advocate, 
In manly strength its bulwarks and its shield. 
A man sometimes forgets a mother's name — " 

But here he stays the torrent of his words; 
For at this moment he recalls to mind 
That Caesar's mother bore no stainless name. 
So now with scarce a pause he says: 

"My lord, 
Ere I came hither, Annas is his name, 
Did beg of me with many weighty words 
That I should proffer thee his homage here, 
And add thereto his humble prayer and wish 
That he be now received in audience. 
Since by thy will my house hath sheltered him, 
The days have lengthened into weeks, and now 
He hath a face as long as is the law. 

He waiteth, Caesar, in the outer courts; 
I pray thee, let him tell his embassage, 
And to return in peace unto his home." 

—164- 



Now while he hears, the Tyrant's changing face 
Shows forth the passions that possess his soul; 
But as his anger downs and he regains 
His usual coolness, with a sneer he says: 

"Most moral artist, by the gods, thou art 

Fast tangled in the web of those same charms, 

I fear, past saving, else thou hadst not been 

Her father's errand boy to me, I trow. 

Thou pleadest earnestly in his behalf, 

Perchance, thou hast been reading Hebrew lore; 

I mind tradition of her race like this — - 

'The woman tempted me and I did eat.' 

The women, pooh! are only toys to men, 

A passing pleasure, pretty while it lasts, 

A plume to crown the victor in the strife, 

To show, Marcellus, and then throw away. 

'Tis true they cozen us at sundry times, 

And cut our hair as did that ancient hag. 

We make fair puppets if they pull the strings. 

Affairs of state do owe their issue oft 

To threads as fine as spiders' woven webs; 

And, though unseen, are strong as hammered steel 

Held in the hands of beauty and of love. 

Beware, Marcellus, there is danger here — 

The Jewish Sampson came to grief through this; 

And there are still Delilahs in the world. 

Well, set him forth, and let him have his wish. 
What! ho there! Bring the dog within the hall; 
We'll hear his words." 

Some moments pass; and then approaching slow, 
The venerable Annas, Jewish envoy, comes 

—165— 



And bends with proud humility to him, 
Who holds the fate of millions in his grasp. 

A man of lordly port, whose hair and beard 
Of snowy white half hide his countenance; 
And, from beneath his shaggy brows, two eyes 
Of oriental lustre glittering shine. 
Although the stamp of age has set a seal 
That time alone stamps on the human form, 
Yet vigorous manhood still disputes the sway 
With the encroaching spectres of the grave. 

He bows, as one unused to bend his head 
In homage due to any mortal thing, 
As he comes calmly forward to the place 
Left open in the press around the throne, 
And there awaits the Emperor's commands. 

The Caesar speaks with cold and haughty voice: 
"Methinks, O Jew, thou are dissatisfied 
With us, and what of entertainment we 
Have deigned to offer thee and thy fair child, 
And some in haste beside to get thee hence, 
To leave our presence and this springald's here. 

Is then thy crow's nest better than our Rome, 
And thy stale priestcraft than the clash of arms? 
But let that pass. Thou cravest speech of us; 
We listen. Let thy tale be short; 
Time is too fairly dight to waste on thee." 

"Most gracious Caesar," says the aged Jew; 

"As thou permit, I will unfold to thee 

The supplication trusted to my care, 

And keep desire within the bounds prescribed, 

-166 - 



And to the tenor of my embassage 

As briefly as may be. Few words are best, 

Therefore, the few contain the entire gist 

Of many more within their well-judged choice. 

I come to thee, O Caesar, as a child 
Doth to its father for a needful thing; 
But not with proud and dominating words 
That ill beseem the conquered and enslaved; 
I come to thee as envoy from the King. 
I am an high priest of Jerusalem; 
My name is Annas, and I am a Jew. 

These are the words King Herod bade me speak; 
He hath instructed me to bring to thee 
A truthful statement of important things, 
That have alike an issue bad and good 
For thee, the master, and to us who serve. 
The victor and the vanquished are allied, 
More closely linked, than is the fettered slave 
That toils in gyves beside his ill-starred mate; 
And well or ill for one is so for. both. 

O Caesar, all our people groan beneath 

The heavy burdens on their shoulders laid 

In taxes, tribute, and confiscate lands. 

Our public treasury, emptied of its store, 

Lies as a beggar, naked at the gates; 

And men of note and standing in our midst, 

Aforetime rich in houses, goods and gold, 

Now cling with desperate hands to that last thing 

That they, O Caesar, dare to call their own. 

The poor, unceasing, cry aloud for bread; 

And pale, wan famine sits at every board 

—167— 



And sucks our heart's blood with its vampire beak, 

Until the fountains of our lives run dry; 

And reason, taxed by overweight of woe, 

Is overbalanced like a drunkard's brain, 

Which brings the whole man groveling to the dust; 

And patriotism by mad sorrow stung, 

Doth nurse its smarting sores in sullen wrath, 

Or ill advised, by many treacherous knaves, 

Doth lurk in corners and in secret holes; 

And murder with red hand doth snatch the crown 

From Justice's head and put it on his own. 

We tread upon a thin and smoking crust 

That veils volcanic fires that seethe and burn; 

And this forbodes destruction without stint; 

For who can stand against great Caesar's might, 

Or wisdom force into the heads of fools? 

Then contrast oft hath much to answer for; 

And side by side the bitter with the sweet, 

Make bad more bitter and the good more sweet. 

Thy well-paid cohorts throng our market-place, 

Take what they will, and with strong hand of power 

Do well or ill, as seemeth to them best; 

Build up, tear down, make rich, or yet more poor; 

And ruin but awaits some evil chance 

To hold high carnival within our walls. 

Thy mandate, Caesar, doth contain for us 

Decrees of life or death, as thou shalt will; 

And so to thee we come in this our need. 

My people are a careful, hoarding race; 
From small beginnings, meagre, poor and mean, 
They lift themselves to wealth where others fail; 
And if upheld and saved by thee from this, 

—168— 



That now presages something worse than death, 

May aid in bearing up thy arm of might, 

By that all-conquering king, the power of gold. 

For there are seasons fraught with trouble dire, 

When lordly might doth tremble on the verge; 

Annihilation like a dragon lies 

In waiting in the deeps that yawn below. 

And Caesar, take this fable as 'tis meant — 

A mouse did save a lion from the snare. 

I come entreating mercy at thy hands 

For us, the chosen pyiple of the Lord, 

And for the city that our fathers built. 

As Rome to thee, O Caesar, wise and great, 

Jerusalem to us, the Jewish race, 

Enhallowed by fond memory's fadeless wreaths, 

That shade the tombs of all her mighty dead. 

We humbly pray thee, spare to us and ours 

This monumental city of our God — 

So shall thy name go down to future years 

Emblazed in glory, lasting and sublime; 

For in thy laurel crown a bud shall bloom 

And blossom into mercy; through all time 

Posterity shall point to it, and keep 

That deathless blossom living on thy grave; 

And God, our God, shall bless thy name and thee. 

For Justice armed and girded for the fight 
Hath gentle mercy ever at his side. 
They are the hands of God, this blessed pair, 
They stretch wide open over all the world, 
With power and largess to the sons of men. 
Immortal wisdom guides with love divine 
Their mission unto us. O Caesar, know 

-169— 



That man is likest God, whose will and deed 
Are loosed from out the grasp of these alone, 
These two, the servants of His holy will." 

The Hebrew's clear and most incisive tones 
Are heard no more; and with his white head bare 
And lifted up, as one who breasts the shock 
Of coming strife or calm with equal mind, 
He stands a picture of majestic strength. 

Tiberius silent sits with lowering brow, 

And eyes down bending to the marble floor; 

While throughout all the throng that waiteth there 

A murmur runs, like waves upon a shore. 

Then that expectant hush, that holds within 

Its troubled heart presentiment and fear, 

Keeps each one silent, moveless where he stands. 

An evil smile, just curling round his lips; 

His hands tight clenched, until the nails sink deep 

Into his palms; while on his pale, thin face 

A splash of red, the hectic flush of rage, 

Burns like a flame; and now he speaks: 

"'Tis passing strange, most worthy Jew, 'tis strange 

That Herod and thyself could frame no words 

That bear the faintest semblance of a truth! 

Didst think that Caesar wore the cap and bells? 

For if thy tale, that is o'er glibly told, 

Doth hold one grain of truth unto the pound, 

'Tis strange, I say, O most inventive Jew, 

These tidings have not touched our ear till now. 

The world doth kneel and kiss Rome's trailing robes: 

And death doth lay its bays on Roman graves; 

—170- 



And this should choke the lie before 'twas told. 
Do Romans die, and rumor not give tongue? 
Do Romans die, and vengeance not find sheath 
Within the hearts of them that do the deed? 

No, no, sweet Jew, it was a pretty tale, 

Well told, and might have fooled a lesser man; 

'Tis food for women and for puling babes, 

But not fit meat for such an one as I. 

And yet, perchance, the fates have played me false. 

No flowering bud but in its cup may lie 

The unsuspected worm that shall destroy, 

And turn its fresh young beauty into blight. 

We'll look to it and thee, most worthy Jew. 

More like ye thought my pity had been moved 

By such sore evils as thou tellest of, 

And shekels might o'erweigh to greater gain. 

Ye gods! A Jew, and without gold galore! 

Didst ever know a Jew to beg for bread, 

Or starve for want of pence to purchase it? 

By Jupiter! Thy liest in thy throat! 

And didst thou dare compare this Rome of ours 

With that blear-eyed, hoar mendicant of thine? 

If 'twere not thy old limbs were lean and tough, 

Thou shouldst have furnished meat to feed my pets. 

Didst see them, Jew? They are as sleek and neat 

As two fair maidens from a morning bath; 

My Abyssinian babes are frolicsome — 

They'd tear thee limb from limb, if but to see 

If in a Jew there ran pure human blood. 

But faith! A Jew's not good enough for them! 

And, Jew, among thy waste of idle words, 
I do remember me of one fair truth; 

—171— 



But had I younglings old enough to talk, 
Their lips could lisp it in a nursery rhyme. 
Tbou sayest well in this, that justice is 
Of right, the attribute of kingly swa)?; 
And thou shalt have it, and thy cursed race — 
Good measure, full and running o'er the brim. 
Ho! there! The hour grows late; away with him, 
For other weightier matters call us hence. 
Put him in bonds and see they hold him fast." 

Then Annas, where he stands, and without change 

Of any single feature in his face, 

To show the inner working of his thought, 

Bursts forth, while every word falls clear and sharp 

Upon the sudden stillness of the room: 

•'Thou doest ill, O Caesar, in this thing. 
By the great God I serve and do obey, 
My every sentence bears the legal stamp 
And seal alone of Herod's embassage; 
And not one word originates in me, 
No, not one tithe or tittle of a word; 
I do but act as mouthpiece for the king. 
I am embassador unto thy Court, 
Simply an humble envoy, nothing more. 
The person of an envoy in all case 
Is sacred, even under Roman laws, 
And I appeal unto the laws of Rome." 

And now once more Tiberius answers him: 
"Appeal to Caesar, not from Caesar, Jew." 

A chill, sarcastic smile shines in his eyes, 
And he doth seem to muse a moment's space; 

—172— 



Then speaks again, a flush upon his brow, 

As though a sudden thought had brought it there. 

"Peace, fool," he says, "the laws of Rome, indeed, 

Have force to stay all hands save mine alone; 

But in this case I will obey the law. 

Yet mark this well, an hostage I will have 

For thy good faith and that of Herod's too. 

Thou hast a daughter, she shall bide at Rome. 

Lo, thou art free; return and tell thy friend 

What pleaseth thee; but, Jew, remember this — 

That Rome's decrees are by the world obeyed; 

That tribute is purveyor unto Rome; 

That every tax must be and shall be paid, 

Unto the smallest fraction of a mite. 

No tax or tribute that we have imposed 

Hath origin in aught but lawful need; 

And need of gold hath ever thirsty maw, 

But love of gold is low and mean and small — 

Doth well befit a miser or a Jew. 

Now, mark ye! Let Herod look to it; 

Or I will blot thy city from the earth, 

And jackals shall find food where now ye starve. 

Ha! Ha! A goodly tale! so, get thee gone!" 

"By Israel's God, O Caesar, pity me!" 

The. Hebrew's face grows pale and wan with fear. 

"I do implore thy mercy! Who is she, 

That thou shouldst keep my Zillah and not me, 

Who am of consequence among the Jews, 

While she is but a child, a litttle thing, 

And of small count as hostage unto thee?" 

"Go hang thyself, thou dog!" the Caesar says. 
"Lies, lies, I tell thee, every word a lie. 

—173— 



She is not small or little, but as sweet 

And well developed as a Roman dame. 

Didst think there were no eyes to see but thine, 

And thy small words could lead me by the nose, 

And any tale would fit a Roman King? 

Go to! I'll have her here, and in my care. 

Do thou not fear — I'll keep her tenderly. 

Ho! Ho! I'll be a mother to the babe; 

She shall forget the Jews and all their ways. 

I judge 'twere better she were in my charge, 

Than billeted on my Marcellus here; 

More safe, perhaps, than in his care. Who knows? 

Tell him, Sejanus, what a man I am — 

How fatherly and kind to little girls." 

The Jew cries out and sinks upon the floor; 
His calmness and repose have flown away, 
As autumn's withered leaves before the gale. 

"O Caesar, do with me what seemeth good, 
But leave my daughter to return in peace. 
See! I am old, my hair is white with years. 
I beg of thee thy mercy on my knees. 
I, High Priest of the Temple, kneel to thee — 
I never knelt before to aught but God." 

He falls upon his face and weeps aloud. 
The tyrant does not deign to answer him; 
He only motions to his willing slaves 
Who drag the aged man from out the Hall. 

The Hebrew gone, Tiberius sternly says: 
"Have ye, O Romans, aught to say to us 
Pertaining to this matter of the Jews? 

—174— 



My good Sejanus, did we well or ill? 

And Casius, Pontius, speak and tell your minds. 

Brave Romans, let us hear your will in this." 

And as with one voice say they, "It is well." 

"Marcellus, thou art silent, what sayst thou? 
Thou lookest pale; art thinking of thy maid?" 

"All men," he answers, "owe a duty high 

Unto the one upon whose chosen brow 

Authority doth sit with folded wing; 

And when we love the man within whose hand 

A nation's welfare rests for good or ill, 

Then obligation sounds its loudest call. 

A brave heart, Caesar, never counts the cost, 

When duty lays a burden on its back; 

E'en honest friendship scorns the name of fear. 

The poisoned shaft that rankles in the flesh, 

True love draws out and sears the festering wound; 

Though pain rebukes, health gladly pays the score 

In added gratitude and love and trust. 

I ask thy patience, for my words are few, 

And what I say to thee is truth alone. 

Cowards and slaves have ever silent tongues; 
And Caesar's yea is yea and nothing else; 
For fulsome flattery stands beside each Throne 
And basely whispers in its ear, 'tis well, 
And fawns upon the hand that buffets it. 
Are ye free Romans, or then are ye slaves? 
'Speak on' quoth Caesar, and ye say, ' 'tis well;' 
'Speak on,' quoth Caesar, and ye say, ' 'tis ill;' 
'Tis one or other as ye judge his mind. 

—175- 



I am a free-born citizen of Rome; 
And here before ye all, I dare ye say 
That I, Marcellus, ever stooped from right, 
Or ever was less Caesar's truest friend, 
Because I held opinion to his face 
That varied or opposed one of his own; 
But not in murmurs and behind his back. 
The dearest friend I ever had in Rome 
Was he who told me, to my face, my fault. 

Most noble Caesar, this I say to thee, 
Because thou hast within that breast of thine 
A master soul; among all others great, 
With intellect as powerful as is thine, 
But circumscribed by station and by fate; 
For opportunity hath crowned thee king. 
One, man among us all must rule supreme — 
And therefore art thou Caesar; 
One man must stand on fame's most lofty height 
And be the beacon-star to all the world — 
And therefore art thou Caesar. 
Thou art the keystone of a mighty arch, 
Upheld by firm foundations, wide and deep; 
But mark this fact, Tiberius, mark it well — 
That stone stands out more prominent than all; 
It bears the hall-mark of the whole, wide arch; 
Yet it doth hold firm place at second hand, 
Through other blocks, that mark decent in tiers 
By layer after layer of the rock, 
Unto the common stones that form its base. 

And now behold! The builder with great care 
Doth pay attention to these same poor stones; 
For on them rests the whole perfected work. 

-176- 



Care then, O Caesar, for these bottom stones, 
And bed them strongly on good basic rocks, 
And plaster all their crevices with care, 
With careful patience and humanity, 
Else topples the whole structure to its fall 
And lies a shattered ruin. 

He that rules well is servant to the rest. 
The kingdoms of the world have borne sure proof 
And deep cut record of the words I speak; 
Where despots rule, all nations have decayed. 
The past stands forth a ghost, with lifted arm, 
Whose finger points to us, the men of Rome, 
And we can hear from out its mouldering skull 
The muttered word, Beware!" 

"Ah, ha! and wouldst thou teach me state-craft, me!" 

Cries Caesar starting to his feet in rage; 

"I, Caesar, be admonished like a boy 

That on the course ill runs his stadium? 

Leave thou my presence! Who art thou, forsooth, 

That dares to throw my judgment in my teeth? 

The Jewess, by my faith, hath made thee mad. 

I must behold this peerless queen of thine, 

If she prove fair and fond, I'll take thy place, 

And save thee from temptation at her hands.. 

By the great Jove! Hath Caesar come to this 
When any love-sick fool may vent his spleen 
In unwashed words and flout him to his face? 
Thy speech is but a coward's dagger, aimed 
At my estate and blunted on my mail. 
'Tis not the ides of March, most zealous friend — 
Julius was warned and so, forsooth, am I. 
Wouldst new libations pour to Pompey? Ha!" 

—177— 



As Caesar speaks the crowd grows still with dread, 

As when the tempest, raging in the sky, 

Doth drop the lightning bolt that tears apart 

The piled up masses of the solid rocks, 

Or sends to sudden death some hapless soul, 

Picked out by fate among the huddling throng; 

Each one expectant dies in fancy there, 

And takes his life up with a grateful heart, 

At the first hint of sunshine through the clouds — 

So they, these craven slaves of tyranny. 

For men make idols that are not of gold, 
Nor wood, nor stone, but only human clay. 
We'll set it on a pedestal, they cry; 
And lo, they fall and worship what they made, 
And call it king or God, or what ye will. 
Ye fools! 

Marcellus, what of him? He stands 
As white as death, yet not with fear, but pain, 
And passion made more terrible by will 
That stays its rising tide with iron hand; 
A look of stern resolve upon his face 
Sits dark as night, but ere he turns away, 
He slowly says, his lips are trembling now, — 

"That I have loved thee doth appear in this — 
That here before thy face I spake true words 
Of warning and advice, as friend to friend. 
My life is thine and Rome's; do as thou wilt, 
If thou hast taken umbrage at my speech, 
'Tis well; I yet have honor if I lose all else. 

Thou knowest, Caesar, where I have abode; 

—178- 



Thy myrmidons will find me at thy wish. 
And so, farewell. 

Perhaps they may or no," 
He mutters to himself; "My fool is dead;" 
Then moves away; but with as proud a step 
As ever Caesar mounted to a throne. 
He leaves the hall and passes from the sight. 

Meantime, the darkness of the closing day 

Is painting gloomy shadows in the room, 

In keeping with the thoughts that move the heart 

Of this poor effigy of kingly rule. 

"He shall have freedom," Caesar mutters low, 
"Like yonder struggling eagle and no more, 
But not a golden chain, ha! ha! O no. 
He said he was free-born, forsooth; yes, yes! 
The grave is jail no mortal ever breaks, 
And death a better jailer than them all; 
And he shall not escape me, by the gods!" 

As though to controvert Tiberius' words, 
The restless bird, still tugging at its bonds, 
And moving back and forward on its perch, 
With one fierce wrench its fetters bursts in twain; 
And sudden, with a gladsome cry, it rose; 
Unchained and free, and circling overhead, 
The eagle screams defiance and is gone. 



Oh, love doth force a man to many shifts! 
It leads him here and there at its sweet will, 
By flowery ways that end in sin and death; 

-179- 



Through dreary, sandy deserts, where no one 
But God is there, alone with his own heart; 
Or by the banks of gently flowing streams, 
Whose softly gliding waters breathe of peace. 
Love makes a Hell or Heaven of all our lives; 
Fate casts the dice, we win or lose the throw; 
Eternity may load it to our good. 



Night settles over Rome; the evening sky 
Is starred and written in with points of light; 
A distant sound of music thrills the air; 
The laugh of happy children at their play; 
The murmur of the city's crowded ways; 
The fleeting lights and shadows of the night 
In slow procession pass upon the view. 

Grim visaged crime, and misery pale and wan, 
And rage and tumult, torn and battered, come, 
But leave sad echoes following in their train — 
The oath of anger and the cry of pain, 
The hungry call of nature for a crust, 
The drunkard's braggart voice befouled in wine; 
So, threaded in, the varied warp and woof 
Of swarming life goes ceaseless on its way — 
Full flaunting shame and honor in its robes; 
And dropped between, with softened undertones, 
The lapping wash of waves upon the shore, 
Where Father Tiber courses to the sea. 

A boat upon its bosom softly creeps 

With stealthy, gliding motion down the stream; 

And in the shadows of its swelling sails, 

—180- 



Three dim and ghostly forms fade through the night, 

As distance draws its curtain to the gaze; 

One tall, gray-haired and old, with snowy beard; 

One manly, strong, and with grave, earnest eyes, 

That turn with tender care upon the one 

Who leans with clinging grace upon his arm, 

To whom he whispers lowly in her ear — 

"Fear not, my Zillah, thou art safe with me, 
Marcellus will not leave thee nor thy sire." 

The vessel's clean cut prow goes swiftly on 
And passes as a dream. 



And Caesar, pacing like an encaged wolf, 

The rich mosaic of his lordly home, 

Snarls forth his curses, when the morning breaks 

And brings him tidings of his victims gone. 

Marcellus' wealth increases Caesar's hoards, 
And adds full many a gem to deck his crown. 

Marcellus' honor suffers more than all, 
For every dog that sneaks at Caesar's heels 
Barks out its spite, and tears at his good name. 

But weak Tiberius does not go too far, 
Marcellus, though he loses goods and gold, 
Is made Centurion in that distant land, 
The home of Zillah and the aged Jew. 
For underneath all Caesar's bravado, 
Lies that plebian fear that tyrants feel, 
Who gain their ends by craft, not open force, 

-181- 



Nor dare to strike e'en when the foe is down; 

For cowardice hath ever timid hands, 

That take by stealth and murder in the dark. 

No more! Such men as these the world repeats, 
For every period hath its prototype, 
And its contrasting lessons to our lives. 
We note the record of some tyrant's fate, 
The good, the bad, the high, the low, the great; 
They troop the traveled path we all must go; 
Each leaves his imprint; see thou find the mark, 
And carefully tread the roadway of the years. 



JERUSALEM 

The day is fading softly into night; 
The twilight, sweet and pensive, cool and still, 
Drops like an angel's tender, soothing hand 
Upon the tired eyelids of a babe. 
The sun is barely hid behind the hills — 
Those sacred hills, whose every rock and stone 
Is written o'er with words of living flame 
That shine way down the centuries of time, 
And glorify the dust we tread upon. 
Those hills of God arise like beacon-lights 
Above the sea of life's tempestuous waves, 
The holy Meccas of the Christian's hope. 

"Within those circling hills, and on their breasts, 
They hold, as in a mother's loviDg arms, 

—182- 



That ruined city of the Prophet Kings, 

That city builded by the hands of God 

Within the promised land, that Moses saw 

From far by faith in Him, whose will and might 

Had led from Egypt's bondage to that place, 

On solitary Nebo's sacred height, 

From which he passed unto his great reward. 

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thy walls 

Were peace, thy palaces were praise, 

Thy gates were love, thy temples builded prayer: 

Then, all thy children were the Father's care, 

And all thy loins were girded by His hand; 

Behind thy Temple's inner veil, God spake, 

And the reflected glory of His face 

Shone round about thy altars and thy priests; 

And cast the shining splendor of its rays 

Way down the gloomy corridors of time, 

Enfiltering through the ages unto us; 

And Faith hath found behind that shrouding veil 

Its oriflamme of God. 

Then thou wast Alpha and Omega both; 

Thy open doors the portals of the soul; 

Ere yet Jehovah's wrath had fallen there, 

Ere yet He, weary of thy broken faith, 

Had turned away and left thee in thy pride, 

Thy idols shattered and thy prestige gone. 

But now, thy Temple veil is rent in twain, 
And dust and ashes is thy epitaph; 
Thy children all are scattered and debased; 
Sin-driven from the Father's door, they go 
Into the wide, waste desert of the world, 
The Ishmaels of man. 

—183— 



Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 
Naught but His will had ever laid thee low. 
Thy holy places all are desolate. 
Thy sins are scarlet and thy doom but just. 
Thy prophets thou didst kill, whom God had sent; 
Thou stonedest them, and, from the dust their blood 
Cried to the Lord for vengeance upon thee; 
And with their pale, dead hands they dug thy grave, 
And pulled thee down from off thy lofty seat. 
Now, like Lot's wife, thou standest all alone. 
Thou art the tombstone of thy mighty dead; 
Thou pointest every moral of the world, 
Thou monumental effigy of sin. 

Yet on thy hills a glory yet remains 
Unto this day. Here is one spot of earth 
Where each soul lingers o'er the hallowed past; 
And feels the spray of waves that rise and swell 
Until they wash the flood-marks of the world. 

The foot-prints of redemption mark the way 

From earth and night to God's eternal day; 

And one by one, the free, untrammeled soul 

Picks out the guide-posts to its final goal — 

The Heavens open and the sacred dove 

Comes from the glory of the sky above; 

The Master walks again upon the sea, 

His flowers of Mercy bloom again in Galilee; 

The tempest hears, the raging storm is staid; 

"'Tis I, beloved, be ye not afraid;" 

The mountains echo back, "Thy Kingdom come;" 

The earth re-echoes, "And Thy will be done;" 

Behold two angels, sitting in the tomb, 

Whose shining garments brighten all its gloom; 

-184— 



He comes, He lives, He dies a world to save; 
And love remounts to love beyond the grave. 

She drinks from Jacob's well and Jordan's stream, 
On Canaan's plains her guarding watch fires gleam; 
Through faith and prayer her tithe for sin atones, 
Lapped up in fire on sacrificial stones; 
Stands in the Holy Place with bated breath, 
And life joins hands across the years with death. 
The Dead Sea is no more; there Sodom stands, 
And here Gomorrah, on the solid lands; 
And now entranced, as in a dream, she hears 
The cradle songs that swell from out the years; 
On to thy birthplace! Time is now no more, 
For Abram sits with Sarah at the door, 
And Adam walks with Eve within the wood; 
Then faintly come the words, "And it was good — " 

So, tracking through the ages, line by line, 
As memory's waves roll back to shores of time, 
Until the soul, uplifted from the sod, 
Pierces the veil and sees the face of God. 



THE MOUNT OF OLIVES 

The footprints of tradition earth has kept, 
And memory counts her jewels where He stepped; 
But dearer far where truth hath pressed the sod, 
For there the soul beholds and worships God. 

* * * * 

—185— 



The sun has set; but in the distant sky 
The pale and silvery moon comes silently, 
And follows in the pathway of the sun. 
This is the hour that lovers call their own, 
When passion's face is tinged with tender joy, 
And lips, that in the sunlight's lurid glare 
Spake in rough tones or hap in careless glee, 
Grow mute and silent; and the heart of man 
Doth interchange its overflow of love, 
And spirit speaks to spirit in that hour, 
And sympathetic chords in human souls 
Are strung anew, as by the hand of God, 
To all the nobler feelings latent there. 

It is the first watch of the night; and here 
Upon the Mount of Olives, this same hour, 
Two forms are wandering on in quiet talk; 
She, leaning on her lover's sheltering breast, 
His arm about her waist with tender clasp; 
And on these two the glittering moonlight falls; 
The woman, Zillah, Annas' lovely child, 
The man, Marcellus Scaevola, of Rome. 

Can curt and simple words, with careful pen, 

Or long-drawn sentence, culled with painful art, 

Paint to the life some sweetly human face, 

Or picture out expression, or a soul, 

Or draw the line between this face and that, 

And tell where lies a beauty in each one? 

A man may criticise the face of God; 

And some could do this thing with perfect truth, 

Their own opinions are the gods they serve; 

For they will see there nothing but themselves; 

For every critic is a Pharisee. 

Our pictured beauties are ourselves unmasked. 

—186— 



And Zillah, couldst thou see that fair young head, 
Its massing wealth of heavy glossy braids, 
That hold the moonlight in their ebon mesh; 
The eyes as dark as midnight, soft and clear, 
With liquid deeps, from which her troubled soul 
Looks out with love and passion and regret, 
Like some unquiet spirit on the world; 
A noble being with an angel's face, 
But worn and wasted with an inward pain; 
Thou hadst not said 'tis beautiful or no, 
But only turned away with tears, and sighed. 

Now Zillah speaks, and all so low her voice, 

His listening ear can barely catch its tones; 

"Marcellus, friend, my father lieth sick, 

Yet I came hither as at thy request. 

Old age hath not the sinews of the young, 

And his long journey hath so worn his strength, 

And Herod's anger hath so touched his pride, 

Because of failure in his embassage, 

That he hath almost lost the wish to live. 

He worries like a child if left alone. 

Dost know, Marcellus, life and death are slaves 

That only serve two masters, will and fate; 

And when the will to live hath lost its power, 

The other takes the reins and drives down grade. 

My father watches me both night and day, 
And dim suspicion is made strong by love. 
A parent's love is made of many links 
That intertwine, and weave so strong a chain 
That any hand that tears it from its hold, 
Doth find the rupture wet with blood and tears. 
And I, ah me! have wrung his heart with fear. 

—187— 



God! Did he but dream his daughter — 

* * * * Yes, I hear! 

(As her companion mutters soothing words) 
That thou hast suffered and because of me 
Full well I know, and knowing love thee more. 
Caesar hath banished thee to this far spot, 
Thy office taken from thee by his will, 
The noble Scaevola an humble man. 

'Tis true, thou art Centurion, but then 
'Tis only one poor step above the herd. 
Thou dost regret the deed, I doubt me not; 
And Caesar must have known his hostage gone, 
Found love and succor at thy kindly hands. 

But hear, Marcellus, wrong is ever wrong, 
Alas! When even love like mine for thee 
Doth throw its glamour o'er our sinful lives. 
Our love can ne'er be sanctified by law. 
Thou art a Roman, and although his friend, 
The high priest Annas never would consent 
To wed his daughter to thy race; and this, 
Marcellus, thou dost know as well as I. 

1 never told thee how at Martha's home 
I met one day the mother of that Man, 
The Nazarene; and, O Marcellus, when 
She turned on me her sweet, pathetic eyes, 
So full of tender, holy light and love, 

I knew she saw the blackness of my heart; 

And in a sudden flash I saw myself, 

My soul, so drenched in sin and shame, stand there 

In shrinking contrast to pure womanhood. 

Revealed unto myself I shuddered down 

—188- 



Upon my knees and sobbed "unclean! unclean!" 
She lifted me with loving mother-hands 
And soothed my soul with sympathetic love; 
She is an angel, Heaven-born I know; 
I little wonder now, that He, her Son, 
Hath touched new strings of melody in life. 

Ah, woe is me! I wish that I were dead. 
My father, did he know our fateful love, 
Would see me die and never shed a tear, 
And give me to the people in his rage; 
And they would stone me, even unto death, 
For so the law of Moses hath decreed." 

"There is one fact, my Zillah," says the man, 
"That thou forgetest, yet of some import; 
The Roman rules in this, thy native land, 
And not one Jew that lives hath power to take 
One single hair from off thy lovely head. 
And I and those who answer to my will 
Will die, and gladly, in defense of thee, 
If thy least need shall call the issue forth. 
Woe be to him who first shall raise a hand — 
The gods of Hell shall never find his bones." 

"Marcellus, thou art faithful to thy word; 

My trusting heart hath proved how dear thou art. 

But vengeance hath no comradship in right, 

With simple justice and the laws of God; 

Where punishment of wrong is only just, 

It only adds a sin to heaped-up sins. 

But I have other words to say to thee; > 

Didst know that Caesar's spies are on my track? 

And I do fear his most unholy search. 

—189- 



We leave our home tomorrow secretly 
My father doth possess a little place 
In Bethany, a town some ways from here; . 
And thither go we by the morning light. 

Now dear Marcellus, I must part from thee; 
'Twere better that we meet no more on earth; 
The past has been a dream, too sweet to last. 
Love spins its threads of gold with careless hand; 
It clothes a woman in a royal robe, 
If worked into its pattern are three things; 
Three precious gems from out Love's diadem — 
First, faith, unfailing, constant as the stars; 
Then honor, stainless, that shall guard it well 
And force its pure, white bud to early bloom; 
And last, the crowning jewel of the three, 
God's holy marriage, that with tender care 
Shall keep forever pure the perfect flower. 
Love is a bud unfolded from God's thought, 
A fabric beautiful; its pattern, home. 

But when the warp and woof are mixed with sin, 

The good within us holds the shears of fate 

That cut the web, so leaves a ravelled edge; 

And this unfinished fabric of our lives 

Becomes a horrid thing to look upon; 

For memory, like a vulture, tears the heart, 

Whose dripping life-blood dyes it all with shame." 

The gentle stars look down with loving eyes, 

The pitying silence echoes back her voice / 

As though to calm and soothe her tearless woe. 

A soft, low whisper, stirs the olive trees, 

And all the quiet beauty of the night 

Is saying to her tortured soul, "Be still!" 

-190- 



All nature seems so hard and cold at times, 

Our agony and sorrow find no balm 

To heal and bind the broken threads of love; 

But there is not one sigh of grief, one groan, 

But moves some chord in nature's God-strung harp; 

That vibrates to each touch of human pain, 

And sends its message thrilling through the spheres, 

In waves of sound that murmur on and on, 

Until its final ripples touch the shore 

And bounds of God's eternity, in peace. 

Our eyes are dim, we see not, that is all; 

We judge from our own hardness, and forget 

That He is in His works; He made the whole, 

The natural, the human, the divine. 

The best physician that we know is love, 

And when our hearts grow sick and sorrow comes 

The touch of love is better than the song 

The morning stars sang at the birth of time. 

Marcellus draws her tenderly to him, 

And rests her tired head upon his breast. 

He sighs and answers, "Zillah, thou art wrong, 

No rose of pleasure blooms without its thorn, 

The soul's degree of suffering is made 

Comparative from good to evil down. 

I sometimes think, my Zillah, evil's best, 

For man at least, if not for one like thee; 

For all its pleasures are the spice of life, 

And hold a greater ecstasy of joy. 

And why then fight and quarrel with the fates, 

That only equalize by greater woe? 

No sin but hath a good to balance it; 

And though it must be paid for in this world. 

-191- 



'Tis our own doings; let us then be brave 
And meet the penalty without a sigh. 

Rest on my heart, the night draws on apace, 
And soon thou must be gone, and I shall be 
Alone without thee, princess of my heart. 

But now, to speak more honestly to thee. 
The time is passing on, as I have said. 
Oh, happiness is agile as a fawn, 
But misery hobbles on with broken crutch. 

Thy words, my Zillah, bear full heavy weight 

Of promised sorrow to my faithful heart. 

'Tis true that I am e'en as other men, 

With all the untrained passions of my race, 

That, held in check by any bands of law, 

Are like unbroken colts that fret the curb, 

Or burst away to fly along the course, 

The useless harness dragging at their heels, 

And blind with pain, or mad with senseless rage, 

Rush on to sudden death in sheer despair. 

Yet deep within my soul, as some pure pearl 

Long hidden by accumulated dust, 

My careless years have gathered from the pile 

The world keeps heaping up with busy hands, 

There lies a gem thy words have brought to light, 

Though long forgotten, still untarnished shines; 

The love of right, that blazes like a star 

Set in the midnight blackness of my woe. 

I know the brave, pure heart within thy breast 
Hath struggled with the grosser bonds of flesh, 
And overcome by inate force of will, 

—192- 



That is deep based on just ideas of right, 

And hath conception within duty's womb; 

For will, that hath its starting point in wrong 

Hath weak fruitition ever as result. 

I've seen of late that it must come to this, 

For love that would degrade, and not protect 

The object of its passion, is not love, 

But vile and brutish, and finds speedy death. 

Methinks we both owe much unto that Man 

We heard not long since here on Olivet; 

Thou, that His words found lodgment in thy heart, 

To bear this fruit from seed He planted there; 

I, that within my soul He woke to life 

A spirit voice, that echoes from the past, 

And rather calls to mind forgotten things, 

Than here propounds new facts to point the way, 

Or new ideas to displace the old. 

His words are gems, mislaid and found again, 

Rich jewels in their empty casket set. 

Forgotten pictures of some glorious day 

I seem to see; some long forgotten face, 

A face that mocks an angel's dream of bliss. 

As through the hazy meshes of a screen, 

I see amid the vistas of the past, 

A morning time of nature's primal bloom; 

Tall trees, that as great kings of verdure stand; 

Sky-purpled mountains in the distance fair; 

The bliss of Eden, ere the serpent's slime 

Had left its trail upon the infant world; 

Ere yet the hand of man had torn the veil 

From off the head of knowledge, and had tried 

To hide his own among the ragged folds; 

—193— 



To what effect the wisdom of the world 

Bears ample proof; for every doltish face 

Is draped with shreds of that same God-made veil. 

'Tis true, the lap of earth hath held a few 

Who have indeed talked face to face with Truth, 

And caught a portion of her sacred fire; 

But this Man, Jesus, is Truth's living flame. 

I sleeping dream, and waking dream again; 
As though reviving memory stirred beneath 
Familiar-finger touches on its chords; 
As music's soul doth slumber in the strings, 
Until some master hand doth loose again 
The prisoned spirit that before was dumb. 

Men say of Him they call the Nazarene, 
That, at His voice, there seems to spring to life 
All that is best and holiest in their thoughts; 
That with new eyes they see their viler selves, 
(As thou didst when His mother met thee, dear,) 
And all their pleasant sins come trooping in, 
In long, accusing ranks of horrid ghosts, 
To sit in judgment on their wasted lives. 

Surely this Man is more than mortal mould. 
When I have looked at Him, my conscious soul 
Seems standing in the presence of a God; 
Soul looks on soul and renders homage due; 
The trappings of the body fall away 
And leave the man all naked and forlorn. 

It seems but yesterday I heard Him first; 

But time is naught, the words He spake must live 

And still reverberate when time's no more; 

- 194 - 



For words like His can never pass away, 

They are the avant-coureurs to great deeds. 

Since first I saw His tender, earnest face, 

And heard the loving accents of His voice, 

Since then, I have not been myself at all, 

But as another, who, his name forgot, 

Doth grope among his memories with blind hands 

For that which ever doth elude his grasp. 

By the great Jove and all the gods of Rome! 
Am I gone mad, or do I dream I am? 
Yet this I know, that I have drank full deep 
From wells of living waters, poured by Him 
Into my thirsty being, from his lips. 

What said He more than Plato reasoned out, 

Or Socrates hath told in learned phrase? 

Demosthenes, and all those mighty men, 

Whose names have been but wisdom's synonyms? 

What said He more unto the human sense? 

No more, no, not as much, and yet much more. 

Aye! To the immortality within, 

He tells a tale of such surpassing worth, 

That centuries linked to centuries shall keep 

Them strung like jewels round the neck of Time — 

Whose hand shall scatter them both far and wide, 

To deck the passing years with gems of truth, 

Until the end, till time shall be no more. 

Then man shall know the chords He touched on earth 

Are living echoes of God's truth in Heaven. 

How do I know? Forsooth, I cannot tell! 
I only know. For if these be not truths, 
Then let me worship lies; for these are far, 

-195- 



Far better lies than any truths I know, 

Or so-called truth I thought I knew before. 

I tell thee, Zillah, when Truth strikes the harp, 

The harp that God hath keyed, which we call life, 

The notes are so attuned, man must believe; 

For every atom in us answers — Aye! 

Then nature listens, trembles, and obeys. 

Words ne'er convey the inner thought that's hid 
Within the common meanings given them. 
Each thoughtful word hath pearls of price so rare, 
That all the piled up riches of the world 
Could never buy a fraction of a thought. 
Beneath His touch, the heart awakes to hope, 
The dead and stagnant senses spring to life, 
And drink deep draughts from open springs of joy; 
Until with soaring wing man's mounting mind 
Tops Heaven's walls, and finds the ark of God; 
For He, this Nazarene, with hand of might, 
Hath plucked the olive branch of love divine; 
And faith is justified in all her works. 

Thou knowest, Zillah, how I love the man, 

Who, though my servant, is my friend as well. 

He thrice hath saved my life from flood and field, 

With that great carelessness of faithful love, 

That gives its all to rescue what it loves, 

And counts the deed as naught when it is done. 

Such love, my Zillah, is a thing so rare 

A man doth well to keep it, if he can. 

Servant or slave, he is a king of men — 

My old Demetrius, honest, staunch, and true. 

Perchance thou dost remember his dead wife; 
She was a Jewess — earnest in her faith; 

-196- 



He loved her well, as well as I love thee; 

And at his wish, in memory of her, 

(Though unexpressed by any word of his, 

I caught the passage of his thought by chance) 

For his sake have I built the Jews a house 

In which to worship, whom or what they will 

I care not; as for me, I'll none of it; 

Their antiquated doctrine seems, forsooth, 

Too worn and thread-bare for man's human needs. 

As for this new religion, it is grand; 

But then, I fear me, it is far above 

The highest flight of common, mortal lives. 

Man always looks askance at perfect things, 

Because they show too plainly all he lacks; 

And yet, this holds incentives that, lived out, 

Would bind our human brows with fadeless wreaths 

Plucked from the deathless gardens of the gods. 

When my dear bondsman lay so sorely ill, 
That the dark shadows of approaching death 
Had almost touched the wellsprings of his life, 
Something within me said, 'Go ask of Him, 
For life and death are subject to His will.' 

The words He spake to me that blessed day 

Yet echo in my brain, like silver bells 

That to the wanderer far from love and home, 

Touch some still chord that vibrates in his brain; 

On some loose cadence floating in the air 

He builds the music of forgotten chimes. 

In the dim maze of memory's labyrinth 

I seek in vain to find the hidden thread 

To guide my stumbling steps. 

—197— 



Was it an inspiration from on high, 

Or some vague memory from a long dead past, 

That gave me that undoubted faith in Him, 

That framed these words upon my trembling lips? 

'I say to this man — go — I am obeyed; 

And to another — come — he waits my will. ' 

When I have thought of these few words of mine, 
It then hath seemed to me another spake 
And used my voice as mouthpiece for himself. 

He would have come in answer to my prayer 
To my poor house, where sick Demetrius was; 
But suddenly my pride seemed swept away, 
And I became unworthy to myself, 
And my proud palace dwindled to a hut, 
And no fit place for such a guest as this. 
And, for that moment only, all my soul 
Seemed reaching out to consciousness of His. 

As Jesus stood there, His majestic form 
Rising above the crowding mass around, 
His noble head uplifted to my gaze 
Shone in the splendor of the noon-day sky, 
As though some inner glory strove to pierce 
Its swathing cerements of mortal clay; 
And then, He seemed to stand out full revealed, 
Like to my dreams of that Almighty God, 
Whose everlasting dower is light and love, 
And peace and joy throughout eternity. 

And standing there with calm and gentle smile, 

With tender, helpful pity on His face, 

And those grave, earnest eyes that seem to look 

—198- 



Within the soul of him who seeks His aid, 

He listened to my few beseeching words; 

I knew the man was well before He spoke. 

Aye! that my servant, healed of every pain, 

Was giving thanks to God with all his heart; 

For I could see him rising from his bed, 

And kneeling down with hands outstretched to Heaven. 

And this I seemed to see, before He said: 

'Go thou thy way, and as thou hast believed. 
So be it unto thee;' and then to those 
Who followed, 'Verily I say to you, 
I have not found so great a faith, no, not 
In Israel.' 

My faith hath wavered since; but yet at times 
I hear a voice say 'Wait, and thou shalt know, 
The end is near;' and then the one word 'wait.' 

I tell thee, Zillah, time hath borne a Man. 
This surely is Messiah, and the God 
Of whom thy prophets wrote and prophesied. 
At His command the dead become alive, 
The lame and halt rise up and dance for joy; 
The shut eyes of the blind are open wide, 
And health keeps holiday where-e'er He treads. 
E'en where His footsteps press the barren soil, 
From out the dust, like starry eyes in bloom, 
The flowers mark the roadway of His feet; 
The desert places blossom as the rose. 

The inborn instincts of the soul are sure. 
Beside conviction reason hath no word 
To sound a keynote on immortal chords. 

—199— 



The human mind can only touch the strings 
That wake the echoes of mortality; 
For Faith stands blind before the gates of Truth, 
And Reason, dumb, doth cling to Faith's loose robe, 
But this man sets the hour and points the way, 
And Faith and Reason lift their hands on high, 
And lo, by prayer they enter at the gates, 
And find the face of Truth at God's right hand; 
For prayer is strength, the muniment of faith, 
'Tis reason's staff on wisdom's hidden road. 
Prayer is in touch with nature's longing heart, 
And nature's great Creator's bounteous love. 
Want and supply are only two strong links 
In the long chain of ordered providence; 
But want that lifts its need to God by prayer, 
Doth find the twin links welded into one. 

For all our longings, wishes, and desires, 
Are overbalanced by God's plentitude, 
And have alike their origin in Him. 
The wish in us, the answer from above, 
Are but the intertwined links of love; 
And thus along connecting lines of soul, 
The mortal may reach out to the divine, 
The human will may know the will of God. 

So, through my inner consciousness, I hold 
A wondrous knowledge of this Man of men, 
Yet, placed before the bar where Reason sits, 
With all the tawdry trappings of this world, 
Doth need the aid of prayer to force its way 
To reach to Faith, unbounded and secure, 
That this man, Jesus, is the Son of God, 
The promised world's Messiah, and the Christ." 

—200— 



"Marcellus, surely our two souls are one; 

Thy speech doth but repeat my laggard thoughts. 

Our love were but a passing summer dream, 

If it were only based on fleshly lusts. 

The love that lives finds recompense for all, 

Aye, all the evils that the world can bring, 

In that communion of two loving hearts, 

That time, nor space, nor weight of many woes, 

Hath power to kill, or any force to change; 

That time and sorrow but intensify. 

And they who separate are weaklings, cast 

Upon a barren world as waifs and strays; 

Together, storm the very heart of love 

That dwells immaculate with God Himself. 

But see! Who cometh here? Is this not He 
Of whom thou spake, the gentle Nazarene?" 

Behold, approaching slowly, deep in thought, 
He comes. His calm face shining with a light 
That seems to shed a lustre all its own, 
As though the spirit through its outer veil 
Spoke to all men with soundless voice, and said — 
"Here is the temple of the living God." 

Within the dusky shadows of the trees 
He walks, a floating vision of the night; 
Now draped in darkness shot with silver light, 
Now in the open splendor of the sky. 
The trees seem bowing down their heads in prayer; 
The grass on which He treads, from out the sod 
Lifts up its little spears and murmurs "God"; 
And lines of shimmering, golden bars of light 
Flash in and out upon the shadowy night, 
As though a host of angels hovered round. 

—201— 



He corneth near, and nearer, where they stand; 
The moonlight streaming downward on His path 
Bathes all His form, white robed, in silver sheen; 
It lingers lovingly about His feet, 
And tangled in the masses of his hair, 
Gleams with a tender halo round His head. 

To these two children waiting by the way, 

There comes the knowledge of some wondrous thing, 

Which, though unspoken, speaks within their souls, 

And bears upon them as a mighty hand; 

It forces them, resistless, to their knees; 

And so, with clasping hands, they, silent, wait. 

The footsteps cease; He standeth by their side; 
Then, as from far away, they hear a voice, 
So faintly stealing on their listening ears, 
Their eager souls seem bursting with the strain, 
To lose no single accent in the words, 
That pierce the sense, and like an arrow cast, 
Sink to the heart, there tremble, and are still: 

"My peace be with you; go and sin no more." 

Then, softly falling on their bended heads, 
The touch of hands, that leave a blessing there. 



And now, what of the night, whose dreaming hours 
Have held within their quiet hands a past 
Whose mighty chords have wakened to the touch 
Of that indwelling soul, that but awaits 
The call of sleep to burst its bonds of time, 

—202- 



Its ligaments of flesh that prison it? 

As sound waves never die, but on and on, 

Forever and forever, witness bear 

To pain, or joy, or sorrow, or despair, 

In one connected and continuous chain; 

So in our lives there is no single act 

But bears eternal witness unto God — 

Whispers of love, the moan, the sigh, the groan, 

The wail of death. Judge ye life's little pains 

We think so great, make discord in His ears? 

Ah no; the pipes of nature's organ raise 

In one united anthem only praise. 

Sleep taps the wire of time, and lo, we see 

Life's alpha and omega, present, past, 

Till e'en the future echoes back, behold! 

The dream is o'er; the visioned past no more 
Holds kingly sway; and memory's vacant throne 
Is swallowed up in sleep and dreamless rest. 
And now, what of the night? 

As, rising from the shadows of its prey 
The bannered hosts of war and carnage sweep, 
With glint of thirsty spears and muffled tread, 
With rumbling wheels whose iron burdens gleam 
With deadly menace in their silent throats, 
On some fair city sleeping in the gloom, 
Whose warders wake to sudden death and doom, 
Where gentle peace had whispered "all is well"— 
Now tumult rages, and the quiet night 
Is torn and ravaged by the dogs of war, 
So, now, upon the mountain's castled steep 
Bursts the full flooded deluge of a storm; 
From out the whirlwind's bosom cleft apart, 

-203— 



The coward gale with scarce a warning given 
Swoops downward, and its lightning bolts are driven 
Upon the earth from out a thunderous heaven. 

From base to turret, at that awful shock, 

The castle walls recoil; rocks call to rocks, 

Whose sharp abrasions shriek like fiends in pain; 

A cry, a stifled moan, and all is still, 

Then shuddering silence creeps to earth once more, 

And cowers in fear before the feet of change. 

Within the room where Caius sleeping lies, 
A boding stillness creeps. From out its gloom 
A clear, sweet voice cries, "Wake, oh, wake!" 
And at the sound he stirs and springs erect. 

"Who calls?" He whispers to the silent night. 

Again the voice, "Danger surrounds thee here, 
These walls are doomed; fly, fly, I pray thee, fly!" 

Without a tremor, calm and undismayed, 
Caius obeys; and passes down the stair 
Where open stand the Chapel's welcome doors. 

Within its shrouding blackness, cool and still, 
Wierdly and pale, the marble statues gleam; 
Around the Eve, a phosphorescent cloud 
Half hides the radiant beauty of her face; 
And from behind the chancel's inner rail 
The Christ stands forth, encrowned and glorified, 
As from a pall stands out the sculptured face, 
The cold, white features of the living dead; 
And memory, or some thought within his brain, 
Says, "Peace be with thee; go and sin no more;" 

—204— 



Hark! From the distant sea, the roar of waves. 

Hark! To the wailing echoes in the air. 

The darkness driven in upon the night, 

In piled up gloom, sinks lower, lower down 

Upon the ebon blackness of the hills. 

For one brief shadowy moment all is still, 

Then, with one sudden, booming, fearful crash, 

The forked messenger of death and doom — 

The lightnings, — blaze and scorch and seethe and burn] 

The unleashed demons of the storm, once more 

Hurl their full forces down. The waters fall 

Like to an avalanche; as though the winds 

Had used their mighty hands and from their beds 

The oceans scooped and poured them on the land. 

Now where the Castle reared its towered head, 

Four walls in blackened ruin front the night. 

Within the Chapel door the artist stands. 

As though some mighty will had drawn the line, 

The storm that rends the heavens, and sears the earth, 

Seems powerless where the wakened dreamer is. 

Tense, drawn and pale, his face, clear-cut and cold, 

Is fit companion for those chiseled forms 

That see though blind, though tongueless have a voice. 

Again he stands where once before he stood, 

Beside the statue of the marble Eve. 

His thoughts are roaming hand in hand with pain; 

For on his brow and in his eyes, there glooms 

The shadows of a sorrow, and his voice 

Is broken, as with tears. 

"How long, O Lord, 
How long!" he cries aloud; yet, wherefore mourn? 
This life of mine is naught, aye, less than naught; 

—205— 



"Pis but a single heart-beat and 'tis o'er; 
And time, a speck of dust thrown into space 
From off the whirling, spinning wheels of God. 
Yet what is time when measured by the thoughts, 
When scaled in dreams or balanced by a sleep? 
The hours are days and days are endless years; 
For on this night I lived and breathed and died 
And lived again. All life is but a dream. 

Then thou, my Eve, from out the womb of fate 
Came forth to meet me with thy loving smile, 
Came forth to comfort and to stay my soul. 
Where art thou, love? Where art thou? Come to mei 
Once more life trembles on the verge of time; 
Where art thou, dear, my sweetheart, Eve, O come!" 

He lays his arms about the cold, white form 
And kisses it with burning lips of love. 
Then with a sigh of longing and regret, 
He whispers tenderly: "Though God hath cast 
Our lips in different moulds, the clay is mine; 
And love is lord of all, — of Heaven and earth. 

Oh memory, thou art cruel, thou art kind; 
Thou art an overweight to tip woe's scale; 
Thou art a wreath to crown the head of joy; 
Thou layest tender hands upon sore hearts, 
Thou art a very angel or a fiend. 
Yet love is lord of all, — of Heaven and earth. 

Thou settest up the tombstones of the past, 
O'er dear, dead faces, seen through falling tears, 
Some father, mother, brother, sister, wife; 
Some loving friend, some little baby face; 

-206- 



All gone, all gone! and yet we live and smile — 
For love is lord of all, — of Heaven and earth. 

For Hope, Love's child, doth set the head of joy 

Upon the bending shoulders of a care; 

She smoothes the wrinkles from a brow of pain; 

God's promise holds her arms of gladness up, 

Until the spectres of the grave are fled 

From memory's battle fields." 

He turns and steps into the chancel where 
Redemption's symbol with its clasp of gold 
Doth pin the cloak of faith around the heart. 
He stands before its altar and its cross. 
There, line by line, deep chiseled in the stone, 
The wondrous image of the risen Lord. 

E'en as the undeveloped plate is laid 
Aside, and to the human eye shows forth 
No single outline of the hidden form; 
Yet, springs to life and beauty at a touch, 
So, in the mind, impression's tensile plates 
But wait the hand of time. 
A touch of memory on the hand of art, 
And lo, we re-incarnate at our will. 
And who shall say that art cannot raise up, 
Like Endor's witch, the image of the dead? 
For it doth say unto the past, "Awake! 
I say to thee, arise!" 

"O thou Redeemer of a world from sin, 
Thou great Jehova Jireh", Caius cries, 
"I am but one, yet one I am of those 
For whom Thy mortal life a ransom paid; 

-207— 



That the immortal part of mortal man 

Might win its way above. Eternal God, 

In Thee is peace, and joy, and life, and love; 

Condensed in Thee all essences of good; 

The good of all the myriads of worlds. 

Thou hast returned the overplus to earth 

To overbalance sin, O Sinless One; 

Where then, O Lord, is that which is mine own? 

Give me my heritage and let me go, 

This world hath now no chains to bind my soul. 

As I came naked in, so go I out. 

When Thou shalt say enough, the debt is paid — 

How long, O Lord, how long? I wait Thy will! 

And I am so aweary, here alone; 
Despite my will, my tired soul rebels. 
What is my life? A desert waste of sand 
Within the noonday glare of tropic suns. 
Alone, alone! what more is there to do? 
If there is aught of sorrow or of pain, 
Thy will be done, I wait Thy will, O Lord. 

I know that I am selfish, man is so; 

We give the less to reach a greater good. 

Our very hopes of Heaven all spring from this, 

And yet the servant doth deserve his hire. 

But then, Thou art the judge of service done; 

Our most, a widow's mite. Ah, would that I 

Could overtop with good the all of all 

My past; so rise above the debtor; so 

Obtain a balance on the credit side; 

And thus regain a portion of my pride 

In my own soul. I would that I might know — 

What sayest thou? — " 

—208— 



For all at once there sounds a gentle voice, 
So faint and soft it seems an echo caught 
And tangled in the meshes of a dream. 

"What sayest thou?" He turns in sheer amaze; 
The cold, still statue of the marble Eve 
Is cold and still no more. Around its head 
A golden halo shines; the sightless eyes 
Are luminous with light; the chiseled lips 
Are curving to a smile; and every limb, 
Instinct with life, as though it but awaits 
One word of love to break its marble chains. 

"At last!" Transfixed upon the spot he stands, 
The artist Caius, as though turned to stone, 
Seems now the statue, not a human form 
With life and being throbbing through its veins. 
His soul can only force his lips to say, 
"At last!" and then are mute. 

A voice comes softly as a breathing sigh; 

"Thy pride, Adamus, is the nether stone 

On which long cycles since thy wisdom broke, 

And all thy will and power wejre ground to dust. 

The lines of life are ordered, not by God, 

But through Him; aye, through one unchanging law 

Of growth, the whip of fate, necessity, 

In Him. The judgments of Almighty God 

Are just, because of their foundation in 

The right, Adamus, and right is right because 

Of regal sway inherent in the good 

That co-exists with stern necessity, 

And so supplies and stays each hungry want; 

So fills the maw of absolute desire, 

—209— 



So fits the soul to climb up towards its goal, 
With strength and wisdom dowered; that it may so 
Reach to its ultimates. 

Long ages since, O soul of my own soul, 
Long weary ages since, I said to thee — 
Not fully seeing all the promise gave, 
And thy soul's love hath dowered it with joy 
Beyond the richest in the gift of God — 
I said to thee: 'My place is by thy side, 
In weal or woe; and where thou goest, I 
Will go, to joy or sorrow, life or death; 
Whether thou sittest on Jove's mighty throne, 
Or shall descend the lowest pits of Hell, 
I will go with thee always.' 

Ages have passed; and now the race of men 

Is gathering in the harvest of the years. 

Our task is well accomplished. Heaven once more 

Lies open to the feet of duty done. 

The promise which I made thee, I have kept, 

As thou, in truth and love. 

The heart of love, though of divided life, 

Is yet one soul, from one impression cast. 

From thee love sprang; of thy divided soul. 

I stood beside thee in fair Eden's bloom, 

And, through my life, thy life was born anew, 

Through love that conquered death. 

How many times our soul hath slept or woke, 
Hath lived in dreams or dreamed in living forms, 
Were vain to tell thee; save those special lives 
Which have reset the hands on nature's clock, 
Until its bells now ring out on the earth 

—210— 



In perfect time with Heaven. Once more, my love, 

When as High Priest at Thebes thou didst foretell 

The Jewish exodus, and thou and I 

Were lost with Pharaoh's host. Once only were 

We separated by His will; yet o'er 

The cast off garment of thy soul I wept. 

And now, since first this stone took form and shape, 
I have been with thee, silent but yet here; 
Content to wait the hour of thy release, 
Thy task accomplished and thy duty done. 
At midnight, O, my love! At last! At last! 
At midnight, dear Adamus, thou art free. 

Thy life hath laid foundation-stones of time, 

That shall have issue through eternity. 

Through thee the soul hath immortality; 

Through thee the finite hath infinitude; 

In that thy cup of life hath held the wine, 

The cup is purified; its fragile stem 

Is in the care of God. Thou hast no cause 

For sorrow, O my love, Adamus, for 

Our Lord hath cast the balances of good; 

Grieve thou no more. The hour approacheth. Peace! 

At midnight, thou shalt be with Him and me; 

But ere the clock shall strike the midnight hour 

Thy dreaming mind shall see another scroll 

Of life, thy life and mine, illumined by 

Another's life; and this shall be the last, 

The seal and signet of eternal truth, 

Its crown of immortality and love. 

And now, Adamus, live the past once more, 
Behold the fruitage of thy life and mine. 

—211— 



At midnight love will set thy spirit free — 
Till then, farewell." 

The spirit voice is still; 
But in the heart of Caius, like a strain 
Of sweet and tender music linger still 
Those gentle tones. 

The voice of fame is but a hollow drum; 

The tones of friendship hath discordant notes; 

The voices of the world, all idle wind, 

That never sound Te Deum in one song; 

The very voice of God hath not the might 

That love's least whisper hath for human hearts. 

Now every fiber of his being stirs. 
He murmurs to himself, "My Eve", and then 
His lips are dumb. The echoes of the past 
Are in his soul. There throbs against his heart 
One haunting strain of music; and its words 
Are wound within that chord of melody, — 
The long forgotten words the angels sang 
Before the birth of time: 

For love is the cornerstone of all: 
Springs from the heart of God alone; 

Listen whenever its voice shall call, 
For all thy sorrows shall love atone. 

And Caius sinks once more to dreaming sleep; 

His head is pillowed on the marble feet 

Of Eve; his eyes are resting on the Christ, 

Whose sculptured face seems bending to his own, 

In life-like tenderness and love. Then Sleep 

Drops down the veil and shuts the vision out. 

His spirit eyes behold the Face again 

Upon the scroll that time once more unrolls. 

—212- 



NIGHT OF THE CRUCIFIXION 

A moonless midnight; in the west one star 
Shines like a smoky lantern through the clouds 
That hang in heavy masses overhead; 
And silence, cloaked and shrouded in the dark, 
Steals like a thief upon the sleeping camp. 
No distant sound of revelry or strife, 
No low of restless cattle on the hills, 
The owl's long hoot, the twitter of a bird; 
So strangely still, that one might well believe 
He stood alone, among a field of graves. 

Where is the man, who in the gioom of night, 

Enveloped in the stillness of the hour, 

When ghosts of sin and spectres of dead hopes 

Stalk pale and grim; and accusation sits 

And points with warning finger to the spots 

That soil the pages of an evil past, 

(For every record hath some leaf turned down),- 

Where is the one that feels no chill of fear, 

Or stands immaculate, self clad in robes 

That are alone the vestments of a God? 

The echoes but repeat the question — where? 

And truth re-echoes, nowhere but in Heaven. 

Upon the draggled margin of the town, 
A Roman cohort lies within its tents; 
And rest holds almost undisputed sway, 
Save where two sturdy sentries stand on guard, 
Twin statues there before Marcellus' door; 
One smouldering torch gives only light enough 
To make the outer darkness darker still; 
Both man and nature seem asleep; but see, 

-213- 



The tent-flap drawn aside with trembling hand; 
A white and haggard face with burning eyes 
Looks out upon the darkness and the night; 
And then a form enwrapped in mantle folds, 
With slow and silent step, comes softly forth 
And disappears from sight within the gloom. 

Now, one of these two soldiers at the door 
Awakes to life and speech, and says aloud: 
"Demetrius, our master is not sane; 
He wanders like a spirit lost in dreams; 
An hour agone he came from out the night, 
And now it swallows up his form again. 

Since first he met this pretty Jewish maid 

He hath not been the same as heretofore. 

The wench is beautiful as Venus is, 

And just as lusty, an report speak true. 

Of what avail, a man to lose his head, 

For any single woman of them all? 

There's plenty of her kind. By Caesar's bones! 

They'll do for playthings for an idle hour, 

But not to break the heart for, or one's peace." 

"Cornelius," the other answers him; 

"That tongue of thine wilt make thee trouble yet, 

It wags too much on what concerns thee not. 

Marcellus heard thee, I'd not bet a rush 

On any length of days that may be thine. 

Shame light on thee for an ungrateful dog! 
He hath been always friendly unto us; 
And one can ill afford to lose a friend. 
I tell thee, man, if people mind their own, 

-214— 



And not the things that others do or not, 
'Twill make their sinews crack to back the load. 
It shows a little mind where there's no food 
That hath been garnered for its private use; 
'Tis filled with nothing of its own to eat, 
And so can only forage on a friend, 
Or like a border ruffian, plunder him; 
So live at the expense of better folk. 
There may be one exception to this rule, 
When charity can steal a stitch, to mend 
The broken garments of some noble mind, 
From the waste rags and tatters of a life; 
When one may cite the general world at large, 
And note a wisdom or a foolish thing, 
And do it kindly as becomes a man, 
And thus pin down example for ourselves. 
But where it is a friend, who smiles on us, 
And fills our belts with money of the realm — 
The thing becomes a meanness, that one word 
Doth well describe, and that is, cowardice! 

Another thing, thou needst not grind thy teeth, 

I fear thee not and naught that thou canst do; 

I am too certain of my arm and sword 

To mind thy anger, or to dread thy power; 

Another thing, and mark thee, this is true; 

I never knew a man condemn a fault 

With more than common weight of moral words, 

But he was covering his own vileness up 

By throwing dirt upon some lesser sin; 

He strives to sneak behind another's shame. 

And when a woman draws away her skirts, 

An she shall pass another in the path, 

Some poor frail creature of the world misused, 

-215— 



Thou'lt find a deeper brand upon her back, 
Could'st thou but look beneath the silken robe. 
A man is but a sample at the best 
Of that should crown the manhood of a man." 

"Thou struttest bravely with thy virtuous prate; 
Ha! ha! Thy life could tell another tale 
If any of thy victims could be heard. 
Thou must be mad for this same Jewish lass, 
To speak as thou hast done in her defense. 
Why one would think thee convert to the Man 
Who calls himself the Christ, the Son of God. 
The Son of God, indeed! some reckless maid 
Hath sought to hide her shame beneath the cloak 
Of some old Jewish prophesy, and thus — " 

Cornelius gets no further in his words: 

The other's hand, with one quick downward stroke, 

Hath knocked the speaker senseless to the ground. 

"Thou hast done well, Demetrius," says a voice, 

"I feared that thou wouldst kill him in thy rage; 

And he shall die, but not by hand of thine; 

I have account to settle with the brute. 

Ah, see, he's stirring, wake him with thy foot; 

Get him his shield, he shall not die unarmed. 

I heard the whole, and thank thee for thy words; 

I am not well and far from strong of late; 

Yet I can teach him how to hold his tongue, 

So he will never use the thing again, 

To cast the spatter of his muddy soul 

Against the white wall of a woman's name. 

Await me here, and keep an eye on him; 

I will return before the hour is past. 

-216- 



This is a night the world shall ne'er forget; 

And yet how can it be, He's dying now, 

If He be not already dead and gone. 

I have been near the spot where Mary is, 

She kneels beside the other Mary there, 

And weeps the death of him they call the Christ. 

And by my faith, Demetrius, 'tis strange, 
I could have sworn the man a very God, 
And death a toy, that could not turn a hair 
That grew upon His head; He others saved, 
Why then can He not save Himself from death? 
I thought that earth had found the Christ foretold. 
Ye gods! He dies between two vulgar thieves, 
Upon a common cross, His friends all fled, 
Except a few lone women at His feet. 

And yet, there is one thing that troubles me; 

I seem to see a vision in my soul, 

As some far off, faint memory of Him, 

And hear a whispering voice, it says to me; 

'This is thy God, the world's Redeemer; kneel!' 

And friend, I sometimes think myself not sane, 

As yonder wretch said not so long ago; 

This day hath been a wonder, if no more. 

Some say the graves have opened, and the dead 

Appeared, and said, 'Behold the Christ of God.' 

And, as thou knowest, later in the day, 

The storm was something fearful in its might; 

Great rocks were split like wheat-straws in the hand; 

The boasted Temple of the Hebrews here 

Was struck and shattered, and the Holy Place 

Left like an unroofed hut to breast the storm. 

—217— 



And now this night is like a pall, that drapes 
The silent earth as if it were a tomb. 

But tarry here, until I fetch my arms. 
Light thou a torch; 'twill answer for the work; 
His soul will need no light to find the way; 
Where he is going there is light, I trow, 
Enough to show the pathway down below. 

But stay, my brain is overtaxed tonight, 
'Twill be ill done to quarrel in the camp, 
And clash of arms will bring a rabble forth. 
Get thee with him to yonder mountain side; 
I'll find thee by the torch I bade thee take. 
See to it that thou do what I have said;" 
Marcellus speaks no more and turns away. 

"O thou poor fool," Demetrius says at last, 

With pointing finger at his former friend; 

" 'Tis useless I should tell thee this or that, 

I told thee so, or 'tis as I have said. 

Put on thy helmet and come forth with me; 

'Twere better we were there when he shall come; 

He is in no condition to be balked, 

And is not ever patient at the best; 

And, if I judge his mood, 'tis far from good." 

"What care I for his mood," Cornelius says, 
"Or thine? If I live past tonight, great Jove! 
But thou shalt pay for that foul blow of thine. 
Thou callst me coward, but I never yet 
Struck mortal man without a warning word. 
Come on! I'll kill one fool, and then, fear not, 
But I will kill the other also; come!" 

-218- 



Demetrius only says, "Thou art the fool, 
As thou wilt find, I doubt not, to thy cost." 
And then the darkness swallows up the two. 



A dark and lonesome place among the hills; 
The din of struggling foes upon the night; 
The flare of one dull torch, whose fitful light 
Is broken, splintered in the flash of steel; 
One pale as death, with firmly compressed lips, 
And eyes that blaze and flame with angry fire; 
The other red with rage and brutal hate; 
Each striving for a life at his sword's point. 

The battle grows apace; and step by step 
Cornelius giveth way before the weight 
And lightning quickness of the other's arm; 
And step by step, and near and nearer to 
The verge of chasmed deeps that yawn below, 
Till one more backward movement, and he dies. 
Marcellus sees, with cold and steely eye, 
The slow approaching doom that waits his foe. 

Now on the very border of the rock 
His victim stands and struggles for his life. 
It needs but one stroke more to end the strife, 
When, suddenly upon his wondering gaze 
A softened glow spreads in pale amber streaks, 
That flush and fade, and turn to molten gold. 
And then a splendor breaks upon the night; 
As though a door unfolded in the light, 
Upon a field of azure, sprent with stars, 

-219- 



Within an inner glory, clear and bright, 

A blood-red cross, and on its dreadful arms 

The torn and bleeding body of the Christ. 

The glory scintillates and spreads aloft; 

The eastern sky is one vast sheet of flame, 

And, in the midst, his sword drops from his hand, 

He cries aloud; "It is the Son of God!" 

And sinks in silent worship to his knees. 

Cornelius turns, and with one shriek of fear 

He pitches headlong, and is seen no more. 

Upon the gloomy background of the clouds 
That picture lies, as though hung up on high 
By hands of God on nature's templed walls. 
A sound of distant thunder fills the air; 
It rolls in long reverberating peals, 
With undertones of music, as if earth 
Had caught the melody of angel choirs 
And, glad, rejoiced, its debt of sin was paid; 
Man's glorious emblem of Eternal Love, 
That noble, God-like form upon the cross, 
That gentle, patient figure of the Christ; 
With that slow, tender smile upon His face, 
That tells the mortal suffering of the man, 
And all the immortality of God. 

That last, vain effort of demoniac sin 
To sear and pierce the lofty front of good, 
The crown of thorns, is gone from off His head; 
And in its place a halo, and inwrit 
Within a silvery glory, like twin stars 
Set in the central splendor of its beams, 
Two mighty words, redemption's inner heart, — 
Marcellus' lips repeat them — "Mercy — Love." 

—220- 



And as he sees the wondrous vision there, 
He turns his eyes to where, beside the cross, 
A woman's form stands like a statue still. 
Her angel face is sad and wet with tears; 
And he can see it as though at his side. 

Then all at once he starts upon his feet. 

"My God!" he cries, "I read the riddle now — ■ 

It is my love, my Eve, my very own. 

And Thou, dear Lord, have mercy! Now I know, 

Through us hath come redemption to the world. 

My precious Eve is born, as God foretold, 

And in the Virgin Mary lives once more. 

And I— O God! I sought the Holy Child, 

And only her unconscious love and power 

Withheld my hand and saved my sinful soul 

From Thy eternal wrath! Another step 

And I had robbed my Eve of Heaven's crown, 

Her promised destiny. Have mercy, Lord! 

And lettest Thou Thy servant soon depart; 

My eyes have seen Salvation and my God." 

He falls upon his knees with one long cry; 
The gentle eyes of Jesus turn to him; 
He hears, like some sweet fragment of a song, 
"My peace be with thee; go and sin no more." 
His eyes upon the cross, Marcellus sees 
It dwindle down into a sprig of green; 
A dove of snowy whiteness, shooting through 
That blaze of glory round the Savior's form, 
Catches the little twig within its beak 
And disappears. The halo round the head 
Of Jesus breaks and fills from bound to bound 
The wide expanses of the night with floods 

—221- 



Of light; then upward through the radiance bright 
The Christ ascends; one lingering echo, sweet, 
Speaks like one chord of music dropped between 
Two strains of song; Marcellus' lips repeat 
The echoing strain, then curve into a smile, 

" 'Tis ended! It is finished! Weep no more!" 

The golden glory fades into the night. 
Marcellus softly whispers, "Eve! my Eve!" 
He stands erect one moment, and then falls 
Like some tall pillar, shattered by a bolt 
From out a cloudless sky, prone on the earth, 
And lies there dead. 



The morning breaks and finds one man alone 
Upon the mountain-side, and he in prayer 
Kneels there beside a grave. 

'Tis noon; two women passing by the spot, 
One with clear eyes, and calm, majestic mien, 
The other with her head upon her breast, 
And hands convulsive clasped, as if in pain, 
Gaze silently upon his place of rest; 
But ere they turn away, with tender hands, 
They strew his grave with God's white stars of hope- 
White Stars of Bethlehem. 

While yet they stand there, as though loth to go, 
A strange thing happens; as endowed with life, 
The blossoms move and form in long straight lines; 

—222- 



A dazzling splendor blinds them with its light; 
And when they, wondering, turn to look again, 
The Stars of Bethlehem have formed a cross, 
A pure, white cross upon Marcellus' grave. 
And Mary murmurs softly to herself, 
"My love, Adamus, 'tis my dream in bloom." 
But Zillah turns away and weeps alone. 

Then soft a voice from out the silence falls, 
"He is not dead, but sleepeth; weep no more." 



The chimes within the Chapel tower ring forth 
In clear, sweet tones the midnight hour; and now, 
The sleeping Caius stirs, awakes to life, 
A radiant glory shining in his face; 
He stretches out his arms and murmurs — "Eve!" 
Then sinks beside the statue and is still. 

A holy hush hangs in the midnight air, 
The prayerful prelude to a melody 
That from the silver bells bursts forth 
In one triumphant glory-strain of song: 

"He is dead! He has gone! He has found his love, 

There is no cause to weep; 
Life has folded its wings like a weary dove, 

And quietly gone to sleep!" 

Then from the starry distance echo brings 
The joyous answer from an angel-choir: 

-223- 



"HE HATH RETURNED TO HIS MANSIONS HERE, 
FROM HIS WOE ON EARTH TO HIS JOY ABOVE; 

HIS SOUL VICTORIOUS CASTETH OUT FEAR; 

HIS REDEMPTION FROM SIN HATH COME BY LOVE; 

FOR LOVE IS THE CORNER-STONE OF ALL, 
SPRINGS FROM THE HEART OF GOD ALONE; 

LISTEN WHENEVER ITS VOICE SHALL CALL, 
FOR ALL THY SORROWS SHALL LOVE ATONE. 



-224- 



